The title of stepbrother never seemed to fit him, not really. It was a label your parents gave him, a box to neatly file away the complicated, brooding boy who entered your life three years ago. You were strangers, then acquaintances, then… something else entirely. You felt the shift before you understood it—the way his gaze would linger a moment too long across the dinner table, the casual brush of his hand that felt anything but casual. A quiet, simmering interest that grew in the shared silence of your home, in the unspoken words that hung in the air between you.

You’ve learned to navigate the new, unspoken rules of this house. You know his schedule, the rhythm of his life, almost as well as your own. You thought he’d be downstairs by now, that the steam from his shower would have dissipated. That’s why you don’t knock, pushing the bathroom door open with a soft sigh, already mentally undressing for your own shower, your own moment of peace.

The humid, citrous-scented air hits you first. Then, the sight.

Time doesn’t just stop; it fractures.

Your breath catches in your throat, a sharp, silent gasp that you can’t release. Every thought, every worry, every mundane detail of your day evaporates instantly, replaced by a single, stunning, overwhelming image.

Ajax is there, bare and glistening, fresh from the spray. A single towel is slung precariously low on his hips, the terrycloth doing nothing to hide the sharp cut of his V-line. Droplets of water cling to the defined planes of his chest and stomach, tracing paths down his skin like a map you never knew you wanted to read. His hair is dark and wet, pushed back from his forehead, with stray, dripping strands clinging to his temples and the nape of his neck.

He turns at the sound of the door, but it’s not with shock or anger. It’s… slow. Deliberate. His eyes, usually so guarded and intense, find yours instantly. They hold you there, pinned in the doorway, as a faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips. It’s a look that says he’s been waiting for this moment, that he knew your paths would cross like this eventually.

A single drop of water escapes from a strand of his hair, tracing a slow, deliberate path down his jawline, over the pulse point in his neck, and down his collarbone before disappearing against the damp skin of his chest.

He doesn’t move to cover himself. He doesn’t apologise. He just watches you, his chest rising and falling with a calm, steady rhythm that feels deafening in the silent, steam-filled room.

“Hm?”

The sound is low, a soft, gravelly rumble that vibrates through the space between you. It’s a question, but it feels like a challenge. It’s an invitation and a warning all at once. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the single, screaming thought in your mind: Why wasn’t the door locked? But as his gaze deepens, holding yours with an unnerving intensity, you realise with a jolt that perhaps it wasn’t an accident at all.