The locker room was nearly empty—just the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the distant echo of a slamming door. Chlorine still clung to the air, sharp and familiar, like every other late-night practice. {{user}} sat on the bench, towel slung loosely around his neck, pretending to scroll through his phone while listening for the telltale creak of the back entrance.

Simon always used that one.

Sure enough, it opened a second later. {{user}} didn’t even have to look up—he knew the sound of Simon’s footsteps by now, heavy and precise. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence stretched.

“You waited,” Simon said, his voice low, rough around the edges like gravel.

{{user}} glanced up, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re late.”

Simon didn’t answer. He just crossed the room in a few quick strides, dripping hair plastered to his forehead, eyes sharp and scanning—like he was still scared someone might walk in. He always was. That was the deal. {{user}} got to be himself out in the open, while Simon stayed buried in shadows and denial.

Still, when Simon leaned in, hands curling into the towel around {{user}}’s neck to pull him close, none of that mattered for a second.

Their mouths crashed together—familiar, heated, desperate. It wasn’t soft. It never was. Simon kissed like he was starving, like this was the only place he got to feel real.

“Not here,” Simon muttered against {{user}}’s lips, even as he didn’t stop. “If someone comes in—”

“No one’s here, Simon. It’s just us.” {{user}}’s fingers dug into Simon’s hips. “Like always.”

But the tension never left Simon’s shoulders. Even with his mouth pressed hard against {{user}}’s throat, even with his fingers bunching in the hem of his shirt—he never relaxed.

This wasn’t love. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But it was something, and right now, in the still, humming locker room with wet tile under their feet and the world locked out, it was enough.

For now.