So I do what I’ve always done.
I watch.
He watches me for a beat longer.Then, slowly—deliberately—he steps back.
He reaches for the knot in his towel.Doesn’t speak.Doesn’t smile.Just loosens it.
The fabric falls soundlessly to the floor.
He stands there, bare, unashamed.Not flaunting, but not hiding either.Like this is just who he is, and what I do with it is up to me.
He’s not perfect.And that’s what makes it worse.Real.Solid.His thighs still flushed from the heat, chest rising slow and steady.A faint scar slices across his ribs, thin and silver like a whisper.His cock is half-hard already, not just from anticipation, but from beingwatched.
He knows the power of it.Of standing still.Of letting me look.
And Ido.I drink him in, my breath getting shallow, my own body pressed tight against the tile behind me.I don’t move.Don’t trust myself to.
His eyes never leave mine.
He walks to the bench at the back of the room and sits down, legs spread just enough to show he’s not shy.One hand drapes across his knee, the other trails idly along his thigh, casual, but not aimless.An invitation.
Without a word, he leans back against the wall and waits.Like he has all the time in the world, and I’m worth every wasted second.
I don’t move.
But Iburn.
The steam curls around us, thick and slow.Every second stretches like heat-softened wax.He sits there, relaxed but alert, like a wolf pretending to be tame.
I should leave.Say I was checking the room.Say I’m on shift.
But I don’t.
Instead, I speak.Quiet.Rough.Uncovering words that have been buried in my chest and are just now clawing their way out.
“Why me?”
He doesn’t flinch.Doesn’t blink.Just lets the question land.
“You’re always watching,” he says.“But not like the others.You look like you want it,” he adds.“But like you’re scared of what it’ll do to you.”
I feel the air leave my lungs.Not all at once.Just enough to hurt.
His voice softens.“You think you’re just the guy who folds towels.But I see you.”
That lands harder than anything else.I’m not used to beingseen.Not like this.
I glance away—just for a second—then look back at him.He hasn’t moved.But his hand now rests between his thighs.Not touching.Justresting.Waiting.
I don’t know what I’m more afraid of.
Touching him.
Or letting him touch me.
“I’m not…” I start, then stop.The words don’t come easily.“I don’tdothis.”
“Then don’t do it,” he says, eyes locked on mine.“Justbehere.With me.”
