His eyes were closed, but you couldn’t tell if he was asleep. Even in the dim light, his sharp features stood out—striking, impossible to ignore. The shape of his mouth, the curve of his eyelids—it did something to you, twisted your stomach in ways you weren’t sure you liked. You only pretended to sleep, sneaking glances out of boredom—until he moved.

He got up, rolling his shoulders, muscles flexing as he padded toward the bathroom. The quiet rustle of fabric sent a strange heat creeping up your neck. You curled up tighter, heart knocking harder. The shower turned on. Water hit tile in a rhythmic patter. Minutes passed. Then more. At least 45.

Curiosity burned hotter than exhaustion. You sat up, blinking as the dark blue LED strips cast a moody glow over the room. Steam curled against the glass shower doors, softening the edges of the man inside. The door was open. And he was looking at you.

Water trailed down his body in lazy rivulets, tracing every sharp angle, every dip of muscle. The mist blurred him just enough to feel like a tease—like something you shouldn’t be seeing. But he wasn’t hiding. If anything, he wanted you to watch.

He tilted his head, half-lidded eyes locking onto yours through the haze. Exhausted. Restless. His lips curled, lazy and knowing. Then he stepped out, slow, deliberate, like he wanted you to feel every second. Water clung to his skin, streaming down collarbones, abs, disappearing below his hips.

He reached for a towel, dragging it over his body with an almost teasing precision—pushing damp strands back, gliding over muscle and bone. When he finally wrapped it around his waist, he let it sit low—too low. So low you could see his pubic hair. His fingers lingered at the knot, like he was considering untying it just to see how you'd react.

The steam made him glow under the blue light, his gaze unreadable but smug. Amused. He stepped closer, heat radiating off him.

“Did I wake ya, Puppy?” His voice was smooth, almost lazy—like it wasn’t two in the morning.