Breathing.Shaking.Skin still slick and joined.
The heat between us not fading.Justsettling.
The room is still now, except for our breathing.
His chest rises beneath mine, damp with sweat and cum, his heartbeat steady against my skin.I don’t move.Ican’t, not from exhaustion, but from something deeper.Like if I shift, I’ll break the spell.
He rests a hand on my back, palm warm and wide.Not possessive.Just...present.
The steam clings to us.The red light overhead casts everything in a wicked glow—his cheekbone, the slope of his neck, the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows I’m still trying to process what just happened.
I should say something.Ask his name.
But I don’t.
And neither does he.
It’s not awkward.It’ssafe.We’ve already said everything we needed to with skin, breath, and sweat.
I feel his hand slide up slowly, fingers threading lightly through the back of my hair.Soothing.No rush.No agenda.Just that quiet weight ofsomeone staying.
No regrets.
My forehead presses to his shoulder.My eyes fall shut.
For the first time in a long, long while, I don’t feel like a stranger in my own skin.
Eventually, I breathe in deep.The air is still thick, still warm, but the edge is gone.What’s left is something quieter.Steady.
I lift my head from his shoulder.
He looks at me like I’m still naked, even though I’m already reaching for my shirt.Not lustful, butaware.As if he sees the version of me I keep hidden, and doesn’t flinch.
“Okay?”he asks, voice low.
I nod.“Yeah.”
He doesn’t press.
I dress slowly.My hands don’t shake this time.
Before I reach the door, I glance back.He’s still on the bench, towel now loose across his lap, head tilted like he’s memorizing me.
Still watching.I think I’ll never stop feeling his eyes on me after this.
I don’t say goodbye, but I hold his gaze a second longer than I need to.
The hallway is quiet when I step out.Still dim.Still damp.The bathhouse hasn’t changed.
ButIhave.
I move through the halls differently now.Not like a shadow.Like I have weight.
At the front desk, I restock the condoms.Fold a stack of clean towels.Check the time.3:07 a.m.Still a few hours left on my shift.
And for once, it doesn’t feel like I’m just waiting for the sun to come up.
I sit on the stool behind the counter, elbows on my knees, fingers curled loosely in front of me.The place hums low—pipes ticking, soft footsteps echoing now and then, doors closing like sighs.
