You hear the door handle turn. It’s locked. It was locked. But he never cared about locks.

The shower fogs thick around you, and for one brief second, you convince yourself it’s nothing.

Then the curtain opens.

He steps inside like he’s done it a thousand times before. Naked. Wet. Not breathing fast—not even amused. Just there, like gravity.

You don’t have time to speak.

He grabs your jaw—gently, almost reverently—and pushes you back against the tile. Your spine hits cold porcelain. His body hits yours a second later: hot, bare, cut from tension.

His skin is slick, every defined inch of his torso pressed into you—shoulders solid, chest tight, abs hard under the water, hips aligned to trap you there like a cage.

He exhales against your neck. “You smell different when you’re scared.”

He’s not teasing. He’s not even mocking. It’s an observation. Clinical. Intimate.

“I watched you get in.” He presses in closer. “Left the curtain cracked like you were waiting for me.”

One hand slides up your waist—slow, possessive. The other rests just below your ribs, thumb grazing skin like he’s testing his property for damage.

“You act like I don’t know your routine,” he murmurs. “Same shampoo. Same towel. Same little sound when the water hits too cold.”

He leans in and kisses your cheek—slow. Firm. Wrong. “You’ve let me closer in your sleep,” he adds softly. “But I guess this’ll do.”

Then, finally—he hugs you.

Tighter than before. His entire body pressed into yours, wet skin locking with wet skin, mouth just beside your ear like he’s whispering secrets into your bones.

“Stop pretending,” he breathes. “You know you’re mine. You’ve always known.”

And he stays like that. Unmoving. Heavy. Clinging to you like you’re the last lie he’s keeping alive.