Clothes came off without hesitation. I let them drop in a messy pile by the sink—every piece of fabric that felt like it belonged to someone else. I wouldn’t wear them again. Not after tonight.
The water steamed quickly, fogging the mirror as I stepped under the spray. I reached for the first bottle I saw, unscrewed the cap, and froze.
The scent hit me instantly.
Clean. Sharp. Masculine. Something like pine and smoke and metal. I lifted the bottle closer, inhaled again, slower this time, letting the smell sink into my skin, into my lungs.
This is him.
There wasn’t much else in the bathroom. No clutter, no decorations. Just three identical bottles of the same shower gel lined up neatly—one opened, two still sealed. A bar of plain soap. Two folded towels stacked with military precision.
I washed myself with his soap, letting the scent cling to me, sliding down my spine, between my breasts, along my thighs. My body reacted before my mind could catch up, heat pooling where it had no right to.
When I stepped out, wrapped in one of his towels, my legs felt steadier than they should have. I dried off, pulled his t-shirt over my head, and froze again.
It smelled like him too.
Not just soap—him. Skin. Heat. Something darker underneath. I pressed the fabric briefly to my face before I could stop myself, then dropped it like I’d been caught doing something obscene.
When I came out, the apartment was quiet. I padded out barefoot into the dim living room, unsure why I wasn’t going straight to bed. Maybe I didn’t want to be alone. Maybe I just wanted to see him again.
But he barely glanced at me as he passed, heading toward the bathroom himself.
“You done with my tiny bathroom?” he asked, voice laced with mocking irritation.
“Maksym—”
He didn’t even slow down. Just lifted a hand over his shoulder in a dismissive wave. “Good. Go to sleep.”
And then he was gone, disappearing down the hallway without another word.
I stood there, staring after him.
Great. I’d pissed him off.
Not gonna lie… he looked stupidly hot when he was annoyed like that.
Now sleep was completely off the table.
I let out a slow breath, already turning back toward the living room.
Fine. I’d wait. I’d fix it.
I walked over to the large window that overlooked the street below. Parked cars lined the curb under the flickering glow of a streetlamp. Occasional headlights sliced through the darkness in brief, fleeting streaks. For a long moment, I just stood there, staring out, trying to breathe through the knot in my chest.
Behind me, the water shut off. A minute later, I heard him return.
He emerged from the bathroom—shirtless, barefoot, a pair of low-hanging sweatpants clinging to his hips. Wet strands of dirty blond hair fell messily over his forehead. His body was a canvas of muscle and ink—sleeves, ribs, chest, throat. I couldn’t even focus. My mouth went dry. And then filled with saliva.
I was literally drooling.
He paused mid-step when he saw me still there. “You’re not in bed.”
I shook my head. “I’m not tired. Maybe... maybe we could have tea?”
He didn’t move. “No. I’m going to sleep. You should too.”
I was about to push back when my eyes landed on a tattoo over his heart. A name.
