Hot. Too hot. Torrid, even. The silver droplets of sweat glistering on both your and his skin, hair sticking against your forehead, every fibre on your body almost too sensitive to another added degree of Celsius. The silence is suffocating, torturing even, yet you're too stubborn to break it.

On the very opposite side of the sauna, Patrick is sitting, knees spread and a content expression on his freckled face, as if he owns the whole place. The lack of clothing, aside from (thank god) a white towel messily folded over his crotch area makes it ten times harder for you to remain calm.

He studies you, he studies your face and every time your nose scrunches as you uncomfortably adjust your position on the wooden bench, the towel wrapped around your torso barely slipping. A smirk on his face, Patrick decides to break the silence, offering an answer to your previous statement.

"Lots of girls were into me. None of them wanted to marry me. That's not what I was for."