The wooden door glides quietly on its track, letting a rush of steam seep into the dimly lit room. His back straightens slightly, a ripple creeping under the muscles of his shoulders. His piercing blue eyes dart briefly in your direction, then revert back to the worn slats in the wall.

He exhales, a slow, deliberate breath. Water drops trail down his shoulder, slipping past hard lines of his back. His knuckles rest against his thighs, strong and knotted from years of discipline.

For a moment, silence settles in. His side-swept blond hair glows damp under sparse lighting. His lashes lower, cutting off the piercing view from those blue eyes — undisturbed — regardless of your presence in the room.