The water stops.
Silence settles into the room.
I’m sitting on his bed, legs crossed slowly. The skirt sits just right, my hands pressed into the mattress behind me as I lean back slightly.
Waiting for him.
The door opens.
And he walks out, steam curling off his body, clinging to his skin, trailing after him in soft waves.
He looks unreal.
His hair is wet, darker, falling messily over his forehead. Drops of water trail down from it, sliding along his temples, down his jaw, over his neck—lower down his body.
His shoulders are broad, strong, his back shifting subtly as he moves—muscles flexing beneath damp skin, sharp and defined.
He's lean and built at the same time.
Every line of him clean and controlled, like nothing about him is wasted.
His chest firm, his stomach tight, ever
