The locker room was a pressure chamber of steam, sweat, and half-naked bodies moving in lazy, post-practice exhaustion. Warm mist clung to mirrors, droplets rolled off tiled walls, and the air — thick with the musk of body wash and pheromones — pulsed with a low hum of conversation and running water.

You had just stepped out of the shower. The towel hugged your body, damp and barely clinging to your hips. Every drop of water sliding down your skin caught the flickering fluorescents above like sweat-glazed gold. You moved slow, casual — hands scrunching your wet curls with a second towel, lost in your own rhythm. The rest of the room barely noticed you.

Until he did. Ness.

You didn’t hear him — you felt him.

His warmth ghosted over your spine before his hands even touched you. Then: arms. Wrapped around your waist, firm, but featherlight. His skin was soft, still warm from his own shower, chest bare and flush against your back. The towel low on his hips, riding just above the sin line. He was careful with you, slow, like handling something precious. And fuck, did he look it.

Ness was beautiful — soft features carved with angelic precision. High cheekbones, skin glowing from the steam, lips too full to be fair. His brown eyes were gentle, but never unsure, a honeyed danger that could ask sweetly and still get whatever he wanted. The kind of pretty that made people ache without touching. And right now? He wasn’t asking.

He held you like you belonged there, like your body was made to fit into his hands, and his fingers danced under your towel just enough to send your pulse jumping. He whispered something, low, teasing, his breath skating down your neck — but your ears barely registered it.

Because suddenly, everything was quiet.

Boots. Click. Click. Click.

You felt him before you saw him.

The locker room’s temperature shifted like a storm rolling in — steam pulled back from the corners, tension pooling low in every gut. Laughter died. Conversations stopped. Time paused.

Kaiser had entered.

He didn’t walk in. He arrived. Like a fucking warning.

Drenched in authority, dripping water from his hair and jaw, shirt half-buttoned and clinging to cut muscle. Golden strands stuck to his temples, the rest swept back like some Greek god who decided violence was holy. His mouth was set in a hard, almost lazy line — but those eyes?

Those fucking eyes. Blue. Cold. Raging.

He saw you. Saw Ness on you. And the little twitch in his jaw said everything.

You were his. Both of you.

Unofficial? Sure. But everyone knew better. Kaiser didn’t claim with words. He claimed with stares that undressed you, orders you followed even when he didn’t say them out loud, and touches that burned fingerprints into your soul.

And now here you were — wrapped up in each other while he wasn’t even in the room.

Unsupervised.

Untouched.

Un-fucking-forgivable.

He stalked forward. Slow. Deliberate. The floor echoed under his boots like a countdown. The air strangled itself. Even Ness — cocky, composed, gentle Ness — tensed behind you like he’d just remembered who owned the game.

Kaiser stopped a breath away. One hand in his pocket. The other tugging his shirt collar wider. And then — he looked straight at both of you, eyes dragging over your towel, Ness’s chest, where his hands sat on your waist like he forgot who you belonged to.

Then he spoke.

“Is this what happens when I leave my toys unsupervised? You start fuckin’ playing house like I’m not the one who lets you touch each other?”

His voice was sin in smoke — deep, rough, laced with pure filth. It vibrated straight down your spine and settled low in your gut. He stepped closer, lips now inches from your ear, but his eyes never left Ness. Still holding you like you were a prayer.

“You think you can hold her like that and not get fucked for it, pretty boy? You think I won’t make you remember I control who comes first?”