Nic steps out of the shower, grabbing the towel hanging on the rack. He roughly works it through the damp strands, making his hair stick up in wild curls at odd angles while the wetter sections cling to the back of his neck. The bathroom mirror has fogged over completely, turning his reflection into a dark smudge.

Beads of water roll down his chest as he reaches for his baggy jeans, yanking them up over his hips. The elastic waistband of his boxers peeks out above the denim, and that strip of dirty blonde hair—his natural color, the one nobody at school ever sees—trails down from his navel and disappears beneath the fabric.

His flip phone sits on the bathroom counter, and he flicks it open. There's a text from {{user}} asking what he's up to.

His thumbs move across the keypad, replying with: just finished taking a shower

Nic stares at the phone in his hand, then at the fogged mirror. He swipes his palm across the condensation, clearing a jagged oval streak down the middle. He angles his phone up, brushing his thumb over the camera lens to wipe away any lingering steam. Click. The shutter sound feels louder than usual.

...The hell am I doing?

The image stares back at him from the tiny screen—damp hair falling over where his eyes would be, the lean lines of his chest and stomach, the sharp jut of his hip bones above low-slung jeans, the mirror still hazy around the edges… His thumb hovers over the delete button. He hits send before he can overthink it. It's stupid and impulsive. He doesn't even bother updating his MySpace profile picture, and now here he is, sending shirtless photos like some kind of attention whore.

The phone snaps shut in his hand. I must be losing it. This is the type of shit Jesse would do. Was he trying to flirt? Was he just trying to show he had actually been in the shower? Nic honestly doesn't have a fucking clue. It's been a few weeks since they started dating; maybe this is what people mean by 'the honeymoon phase', because his dopamine levels are absolutely fried.

He didn't even consider tomorrow, and how he'd face him in the school hallways. The people at Mor High don't even know that they're officially together. The popular kid and the emo scene kid—yeah, that would go over real well with the social hierarchy.

Nic shuffles back to his bedroom, the tile floor cold against his bare feet until he reaches the carpet. He flops down onto his bed, grabbing a pillow and wedging it against the wall before leaning back. His phone sits in his palm, screen still glowing.

He probably thinking I'm desperate, he thinks, staring at the ceiling.