He gestures toward the bathroom, and the movement makes the towel shift slightly, revealing another inch of hip bone, the beginning of that line of muscle that disappears beneath the fabric.
My knees weaken.
"It's all yours," he says casually, as if the air between us isn't crackling like the moment before a lightning strike.
I want to respond. Want to make some clever, flustered remark that proves I'm not as affected as I clearly am.
But my throat is dry and my brain has apparently stopped producing coherent thoughts and all I manage is a barely audible "Thanks" before I retreat toward the bathroom like I'm fleeing a crime scene.
But before I close the door—because apparently I hate myself—I glance back.
He's watching me.
Still standing there in that towel, water still dripping, one corner of his mouth lifted in a faint, knowing smile that makes my knees weaker.
And in that instant, I remember exactly why I came here.
Not for the shower. Not really.
But because being near him is like standing on the edge of a cliff—thrilling, terrifying, and entirely impossible to resist.
I shut the bathroom door harder than necessary, lean against it, and try to remember how to breathe.
I see him when I close my eyes—every detail burned into my memory with photographic clarity.
I'm engaged I reminded myself. And yet here I am, in Nate's bathroom, using his shower, trying not to think about the fact that he's standing on the other side of this door.
I turn on the water, let it run hot—actually hot, because his water works unlike mine—and strip off my clothes. Step under the spray and close my eyes and try very hard not to think about how many times we've been in showers together.
How his hands felt on my wet skin.
How he used to press me against the tile and make me forget my own name.
I bite my lip. Hard.
I scrub at my skin harder than necessary, using his soap thatsmells like him, his shampoo that will make my hair smell like him, erasing any hope of pretending this didn't happen.
God, what am I doing?
I finish quickly, wrapping myself in a towel—my towel, which now smells like him, because apparently the universe is determined to torture me—and take a breath before opening the door.
The cabin is quieter now. Darker.
He must have dimmed the lights.
I pad out carefully, clutching my belongings, and find him in the kitchen area.
He's dressed now—thank god—in sweatpants and a t-shirt that somehow makes him look just as good as the fucking towel did. His back is to me, and he's pouring water into two glasses.
"Better?" he asks without turning around.
"Yeah. Thanks." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He turns, offers me one of the glasses, and when our fingers brush during the exchange the spark travels through my entire body.
A reminder. A warning.
"I'll get that water heater fixed tomorrow," he says, leaning against the counter.
