Chapter 4: The Unlocked Door
The shower was a ritual of erosion. Ellie stood under the spray, water so hot it painted her skin a scalded pink. She scrubbed with a loofah until the freckles on her shoulders stood out like angry constellations, trying to scour away the memory of his thumb, his promise, the look in his eyes as he’d sucked gravy from his finger. The soreness between her legs was a dull echo now, a testament. She hated that her body remembered it with a secret, shameful thrum.
She hadn’t locked the door.
It wasn’t an oversight. It was a challenge, thrown silently out into the universe, or maybe just to him. A test. See if you dare.
The click of the door handle was soft, almost lost beneath the drumming water.
Her breath stopped. She didn’t move, her back to the glass, the loofah suspended in her hand. The shower stall was old, the glass frosted and streaked with condensation, rendering her a blurred, ghostly shape.
She heard the heavy tread of his boots on the bathmat. The creak of a floorboard. The rasp of a zipper.
Then the sound. A steady, strong stream hitting the toilet water. It was obscenely loud in the small, steamy room. Deliberate. Unhurried. He took his time, the sound punctuating the silence, a crude assertion of presence. Of ownership. She could picture it: him standing there, one hand braced against the wall, his cock in his hand, pissing with a casual, animal indifference. His eyes would be on her silhouette.
The flush was a roaring, violent thing. The pipes shuddered in the wall.
She heard his boots again, moving closer. The sink faucet squealed, water splashing. Through the fogged glass, she saw the dark smudge of his shape at the mirror. He was washing his hands. Slowly. Methodically. Working soap between his fingers, under his nails. The act was normal, domestic, and it made the whole situation feel violently insane.
The water shut off. A scrape of the towel ring.
He was using her towel. The one she’d just stepped out of, still damp from her body. He was drying his hands on it, wiping away the grease and grime and whatever else he’d touched, onto the fabric that would later touch her face.
Then he was at the shower door.
He didn’t open it. He just stood there, a shadow through the blurred glass. Ellie couldn’t breathe. The water began to run cold, but she didn’t feel it. She was frozen, waiting.
“You missed a spot,” his voice came, low and clear through the noise.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She said nothing.
The door slid open with a rasp. Steam billowed out, meeting the cooler air.
Steam billowed out, meeting the cooler air. He didn’t step inside, just filled the doorway, his shape solid and real where before it had been a ghost. Water droplets slid down the defined lines of his forearms, tracing the ink there. His eyes, dark and assessing, traveled the length of her body, not lingering, just cataloging every reaction.
Ellie stood utterly still, water streaming down her face, her arms crossed over her chest. It felt like a pathetic defense. His gaze made the gesture feel childish.
“You gonna stay in there all night?” he asked, his voice casual, as if he found her in the kitchen. “Your pruny toes are gonna fall off.”
“Get out.” Her voice was a rasp, stripped raw by the steam and the tension.
He smiled, a slow, knowing thing. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, making himself at home. “Make me.”
The challenge hung between them, mixing with the vapor. Her mind flashed to the dinner table, to his hand under her dress while her mother talked about sunscreen. This was worse. This was naked, literal. Her skin was humming, a traitorous current running beneath the shame. She hated it. She hated him. She hated that she didn’t scream.
He pushed off the frame and took a single step forward. The shower spray hit the shoulder of his t-shirt, darkening the fabric instantly. He didn’t seem to notice. He reached past her, his body not touching hers, and turned the faucet off.
The silence was sudden and absolute, broken only by the drip of the showerhead and the frantic drum of her own heart.
His closeness was a physical pressure. She could smell the rain on his jacket, the faint trace of Scotch from downstairs, the clean, sharp scent of his skin. It was the same soap. He looked down at her, water beading on his eyelashes. His eyes dropped to her mouth.
“You think about it?” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost lost in the drip-drip-drip. “Two weeks. Just us.”
She didn’t answer. Her breath was coming in short, shallow pulls. Her nipples were tight from the cold air, pressed against her crossed arms. He saw everything.
He brought a hand up, not to touch her, but to run a fingertip along the shower’s chrome handle. “I think about it.” His admission was flat, factual. “I thought about it when I was pissing just now. Seeing you in here. All that steam.”
A violent shudder wracked her. It wasn’t from the cold.
He finally touched her then, but not where she expected. He used a single knuckle to lift a strand of wet auburn hair sticking to her cheek. His touch was shockingly gentle. The callused skin grazed her temple. “You’re shaking.”
She jerked her head away. “Because you’re a psychopath.”
That got a real laugh from him, short and harsh. “Maybe.” He dropped his hand. He looked at her for another long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he took a step back, giving her space she didn’t want to feel relieved about.
He turned and walked out of the shower stall, his boots leaving wet prints on the tile.
He didn’t look back. He walked straight out of the bathroom, the hem of his damp jeans swinging.