It’s the quietest hour.The hour when most guys have already left or given up for the night.Where the ones who linger aren’t looking for anything anymore.
Just not ready to be alone.
I get that.
For months, I’ve moved through this place like a ghost.Watching, cleaning, fixing, avoiding.Always outside the glass.
And now?Now I’ve cracked it.Stepped through.Let someone reach in.
And I don’t know what that means yet.
I can still feel him—on my skin, in the curve of my mouth, the ache in my thighs.But more than that, I feel the absence now that he’s gone.Thespacehe left behind.
I touch my lips.Still warm.Still buzzing.
He didn’t ask for my number.And he didn’t leave his.
Maybe it was just one night.Maybe that’s all it ever needed to be.
But itwassomething.And I said yes to it.That’s what matters.
I glance down the hallway.Room 9’s door is shut now.Probably cleaned, already reset for the next encounter.The next bodies.
But I’ll remember.
3EPISODE 3
It’s just past midnight, and outside, the rain is falling hard, pounding against the roof.
It’s soothing in a way that makes the world feel smaller, quieter.And the patrons inside the bathhouse will likely stay longer, until it lets up.
I rest my arms on the front desk, pretending to read an old paperback someone left behind.The edges are curled from steam, the cover damp.I’m not really reading, just passing time, waiting for the night to thicken.
That’s when he walks in.
Drenched, hoodie clinging to his back, jeans soaked to the knees.He doesn’t carry an umbrella or a bag.He doesn’t look up at me, just signs in, pays in cash, and doesn’t say a word.
But something about the way he moves—too fast, like he’s trying to outrun something—makes me pay attention.
He takes the key to locker 14 and disappears into the hallway without looking back.
I rarely follow guests with my eyes.I’ve learned not to.But this one?Something pulls at me.A silence around him that feels loud.A shadow he brought with him that hasn’t let go.
I wait five minutes, then I grab a towel, say I’m doing rounds, and head toward the showers.The hiss of steam and water reaches my ears before I even turn the corner.Most nights, they’re full of noise—grunts, slaps, someone laughing too loud.But now, it’s quiet.
I spot him instantly.Far end of the row, back to the wall.Water is pouring over his head like he’s trying to wash something off that isn’t on his skin.His arms are braced against the tile, thick shoulders hunched.He hasn’t even taken off his clothes.The dark fabric molds to his body, highlighting every curve and ridge.
He hasn’t seen me.Or maybe he has and doesn’t care.I should turn around.I should finish my fake towel run and head back to the desk.
But I don’t.Of course, I don’t.Where would be the fun in that?
Something about the way he doesn’t move—not even to push the water from his eyes— draws me in with curiosity.The man just stands there, dripping, like he needs to erase something or wash himself clean.Like the rain outside wasn’t enough.
Eventually, he speaks.“I know you’re there.”
His voice carries, not loud, but clear.Ragged at the edges.
“I’m not here to bother you,” I assure him.“Just doing rounds.”
