I swallow hard, facing the wall. “Everyone is gone already.”
He laughs under his breath. “Yeah, but you’re here.”
I don’t turn, but I hear every sound—his towel hitting the hook, the soft slide of fabric as he undresses, the muted hiss of water when he claims the shower beside mine.
I tell myself I’m not looking, but my eyes flick anyway. Steam curls around him, clinging to the hard lines of his body. Water streaks over his chest, down the grooves of his stomach. He tilts his head back into the spray, jaw sharp, lips parted.
That subtle shift as he adjusts his stance sends a jolt through me. It looks like he's stroking himself. My gaze dropslower, and I realize he’s just using a washcloth to wash himself.
“You skate like a man possessed,” he says over the water. “Trying to outrun me?”
I huff a laugh that catches in my throat. “Trying to stay ahead of you.”
He hums, a low, satisfied sound. “Good luck with that.”
Steam thickens around us, curling in the air like it knows a secret. I keep my gaze fixed on the tiles in front of me, but my eyes betray me in the next heartbeat. I flick a glance sideways—just a quick one—and catch the curve of his shoulder, the way the water runs down his back in rivulets. The way it moves and bunches like he's hard and stroking himself. My breath catches in my throat as my eyes drop again.
I openly stare. That's exactly what he's doing, jacking off right next to me. My lips part, and I lick them. And he catches me.
Logan turns his head, slow and deliberate, water dripping from his hair as his gaze hooks into mine. His mouth curves, not quite a smirk—something quieter, sharper.
“See something you like, Captain?”
My stomach drops. My mouth goes dry. “I wasn’t?—”
“Sure,” he says softly, like he doesn’t believe me for a second. He tips his head back into the spray again, lazy, letting the water sluice down over every line of muscle. It’s casual. It’s deliberate. And it’s working.
Logan’s gaze holds mine, dark and unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world to watch me squirm. His lips tilt into something wicked and soft all at once.
“Go ahead,” he murmurs over the rush of water. “You can look if you want.”
The words punch straight through my chest. My fingerstwitch against the slick tile. My own dick responding to his words.
“I’m not—” My voice cracks on the lie.
He laughs under his breath, low and knowing, and tips his head back under the spray. Water streaks over his chest, down his chest, dripping from his fingers like he’s in no hurry at all.
“Then don’t,” he says, almost a dare. “But you’re gonna think about it anyway.”
I can’t breathe.
The steam’s too thick, the room too hot, my skin too tight. Logan stands under the spray like some kind of goddamn incubus—water kissing every sharp edge of him, lips parted like he’s savoring the attention. Like he knows I’m unraveling just watching him exist.
I jerk my gaze back to the wall, clenching my jaw so hard it aches.
This is fine. I’m fine. This is just a normal shower, and he’s just a guy. A cocky, aggravating, stupidly magnetic guy, who is absolutely not hard and absolutely not giving me permission to look.
Except he is.
And I did.
And now I can’t stop seeing it—even with my eyes squeezed shut.
The air feels too thick, like I’m drowning in it. My pulse thunders in my ears. I can’t think with him this close, with him doing that next to me like it's a casual Saturday. Like it doesn’t mean anything. Like it doesn’t feel like everything.
I reach blindly for the handle and wrench the water off. It shuts off with a metallic groan, but the heat still clings to my skin like apunishment.
Logan doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
