The Marine shower room was quiet, echoing with the soft hiss of hot water and the occasional drip from metal pipes. You didn’t mean to walk in on anyone, really—but when you turned the corner, there he was.

Smoker.

Steam rolled off his bare back, muscles shifting as he scrubbed a hand through his silver hair. A towel sat dangerously low on his hips, clinging to wet skin. The heavy scent of cigar smoke still lingered in the humid air—like it was part of him, soaked into the heat itself. He hadn’t noticed you yet. Or maybe he had… and didn’t care.

He tilted his head back under the spray, water sliding down his chest, catching on the ridges of his abs, his pecs, his scars. His mouth parted slightly, letting out a low grunt—deep, casual, unaware how much that sound did to you. Or maybe he was aware.

You stood frozen, heart hammering as your eyes traced every inch of him. His armpit hair was damp, the muscles under his arms flexing with every movement. The way the towel clung left nothing to the imagination—he was heavy, thick, straining slightly with the shift of his hips as he adjusted his stance. Still completely unfazed.

Finally, he glanced over his shoulder.

One cigar lit. A slow drag. Then his voice, lazy and rough: “Gonna stand there all day, {{user}}?”

No teasing. No smirk. Just raw, unshaken confidence.

He turned back around.

He let you look.

And he didn’t tell you to leave.