Then his voice, rough and surprised: "Yeah. Yeah, I'm—hold on."
What am I doing?
This is a terrible idea. This is possibly the worst idea I've ever had. But it's too late now because I hear movement inside, and then the bathroom door opens, and?—
Oh god.
A towel hangs low on his hips—dangerously low, the kind of low that makes my mouth go dry—and his skin is still damp, droplets glistening along the lines of his neck and collarbone, trailing down his chest.
His very sculpted chest.
His absurdly sculpted chest that looks like a Greek god took a personal interest in the project and refused to half-ass it.
Nobody should look like this. It's obscene. It should be illegal.
And I'm standing here in pajama shorts with soap in my hair, staring at him like I've forgotten how language works.
Cool. Very normal. Extremely friendly shower-borrowing behavior.
His hair is wet, slicked back from his face in a way that makes the angles of his features sharper, more pronounced.
His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, and even in the dim light everything is visible—the curve of muscle along his shoulders, the defined lines of his torso, the ink on his ribs that disappears beneath the towel.
He's broader than he used to be. More solid.
The kind of body that comes from years of discipline, not vanity. Lean muscle over sharp bones, every line carved with intention.
I tell myself to look away a hundred times in the span of three seconds.
"Uh..." My voice catches, comes out strangled.
I clear my throat, force my eyes up to his face where they definitely should have been the entire time.
"I, uh, the hot water in my bathroom isn't working. I was... hoping I could, maybe... use yours?"
He tilts his head slightly, one eyebrow raised, and there's amusement flickering in his gaze—not cruel, just aware.
Aware that I'm flustered. Aware that I'm staring. Aware of exactly what effect he's having on me standing there in nothing but a towel with water still dripping down his chest.
"I knocked," I say too quickly, defensive. "You didn't answer. And I heard the shower and I thought maybe you couldn't hear and I really need a shower and?—"
I'm rambling. I know I'm rambling.
I make myself stop.
I shuffle my feet, suddenly hyperaware of how small the cabin feels, how close we are, how painfully aware I am of every line, every curve, every droplet of water clinging to his skin and sliding slowly downward.
Heat floods my chest.
There's something dangerous threading through me, something I've been trying to ignore for days now, something that looking at him like this makes impossible to deny.
"I—sorry," I mutter, glancing down at my hands because looking at his face is somehow worse than looking at his body.
His eyes are too knowing. Too warm.
"You need to use my shower? Go ahead.” His voice is low, and there's something in it that makes my skin feel too tight.
I nod, my words failing me entirely.
