Chapter 14: Chapter 14
The memory of his easy voice in the dark – Door unlocked, shower running – had pulsed through Debbie like a low-voltage current all night. Sleep had been fragmented, punctuated by vivid, steamy imaginings that left her skin tingling and her sheets tangled. Now, standing before the bathroom door, shower caddy clutched tight, she hesitated. The house was quiet except for the muffled chirp of birds outside. Steam curled from under the doorframe, carrying the clean, masculine scent of soap and the faint, expensive hint of the cologne Matt sometimes wore.
He took the invitation seriously, she thought, a fresh wave of heat flooding her cheeks. Okay. Okay. He said he was cool with it. It’s just practicality. Like with Ben.
She pushed the door open.
Matt stood at the counter, his back to her, completely naked. Steam wreathed his form, softening the edges but doing nothing to obscure the powerful lines of his shoulders, the defined muscles of his back tapering down to a narrow waist. One hand rested flat on the cool tile countertop, the other held a razor near his jawline. He was staring intently at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, completely absorbed in the first strokes of shaving. Water droplets glistened on his skin, catching the morning light filtering through the small, high window.
Debbie froze. The sheer, casual nudity was staggering. It wasn’t posed, wasn’t performative. It was just… Matt. Getting ready. The intimacy was breathtaking. Her eyes flickered over the curve of his spine, the firm swell of his buttocks, the long, strong lines of his legs. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in silk.
Leaving now would scream cowardice. It would make last night’s awkwardness monumental. She couldn’t. Taking a shaky breath that felt unnaturally loud in the humid air, she stepped fully inside and closed the door behind her with a soft click.
The sound made Matt glance up. Their eyes met in the misted mirror. He didn’t startle, didn’t flinch. A slow, easy grin spread across his face, displacing the shaving cream clinging to one cheek. "Morning, Debbie." His voice was slightly rough, relaxed.
"Morning, Matt," she managed, her own voice tighter than she intended. She set her shower caddy down on the closed toilet lid with exaggerated care, the plastic clicking loudly. The small space felt suddenly cavernous and claustrophobic all at once, filled with the drumming pulse in her ears and the rhythmic scrape of his razor.
She picked up her hairbrush from the caddy. The counter was narrow. To reach the section of mirror not completely fogged and occupied by Matt’s reflection, she had to stand close. Very close. Her bare arm almost brushed against the warm, damp skin of his hip. She focused fiercely on the bristles of her brush, dragging it through her chestnut hair with trembling hands. The humid air clung to her skin, making her thin camisole feel suddenly insubstantial.
Each scrape of the razor felt impossibly loud. Her gaze, helplessly drawn, kept sliding sideways in the mirror. To the flex of his bicep as he angled the blade. To the water tracing a path down the hard plane of his chest. Lower, over the taut muscles of his abdomen, disappearing into the dark hair below his navel. Her breath hitched. He was utterly unselfconscious. At ease in his skin in a way she could barely comprehend.
She saw his reflection shift slightly. He wasn't looking at his jaw anymore. His hazel eyes, clear and direct in the glass, met hers.
Caught.
Panic flared, white-hot. She snapped her gaze away, staring fixedly at her own reflection – the high color in her cheeks, the wide eyes. Think. Say something. Anything normal. Her mind scrambled, clutching at the most immediate detail she could latch onto, something to explain her staring.
"Oh!" she blurted, the sound too loud. She forced a light, casual tone, gesturing vaguely towards his reflection with her brush. "I just noticed… your tan lines. From the lifeguarding? They’re really starting to show." She pointed awkwardly with the brush handle towards the distinct contrast between the deeply tanned skin of his shoulders, chest, and upper thighs, and the startlingly paler skin revealed by the tight lines of his swimsuit.
Matt paused mid-stroke, the razor hovering near his chin. He looked down at his own torso, then back up at her reflection, a slow, puzzled frown forming. "Tan lines?" He angled his body slightly, twisting to get a better look at his hip and upper thigh in the mirror. His movement shifted the musculature, the towel rack behind him momentarily framing him like some accidental Renaissance study.
"Yeah," Debbie pressed on, her voice unnaturally bright. "That sharp line right… there." She indicated again with the brush, her finger trembling slightly. "The speedo cut. Real lifeguard badge of honor, huh?"
Understanding dawned on his face, replacing the frown. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, warm and genuine. He turned his head, meeting her eyes directly this time, not in the reflection. A dollop of shaving cream clung stubbornly to his earlobe. "Oh! That." He looked back at the distinct pale band high on his hip and thigh, then grinned, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah. Comes with the territory. Gotta rock the red trunks." He resumed shaving, seemingly unbothered. "This isn't… weird, right? You sharing while I’m…" He gestured vaguely at his nakedness with the razor, then wiped a swath of foam onto a towel. "You said you and Ben used to…"
"No! No, not at all!" Debbie interrupted quickly, too quickly. She forced a wide smile, her cheeks aching with the effort. "Totally normal. Just like old times. Practical." The word tasted like ash. Her knuckles were white around the hairbrush handle. "Just brushing my hair." She demonstrated vigorously, tearing the bristles through a knot. Don't look down. Don't look down.
He nodded, seemingly satisfied, turning back to his reflection to tackle the spot under his jaw. The silence stretched, filled only by the scrape of the blade and the frantic beating of Debbie's heart. She focused on the top of her head, the repetitive motion of brushing, the feel of the cool tile under her bare feet. Anything but the naked young man radiating heat beside her.
"Cool," Matt said finally, rinsing the razor under the tap. He splashed water on his face, the droplets flying. "Might just make this the routine then? Saves time." He grabbed the towel draped over the rack behind him, briskly drying his face and neck. "Gotta be on the stand by eight. Beat the weekend crowd."
He dropped the towel onto the counter, right beside her elbow, and turned. Fully. Facing her. For one endless, paralyzing second, Debbie was confronted with the entire, breathtaking reality of him – the water-slicked skin, the defined chest, the flat stomach, the dark trail of hair leading down… Her gaze snapped up to the ceiling, then down to the damp bathmat, anywhere but there. Her breath stopped entirely.
"All yours," he said cheerfully, completely oblivious to her internal meltdown. He reached behind her, his arm brushing her silk-covered hip as he grabbed his toothbrush from the holder. The brief, warm contact sent an electric jolt through her. He squeezed toothpaste onto the brush, popped it in his mouth, and moved towards the door, humming tunelessly around the bristles. "Try not to use all the hot water," he mumbled, the words garbled by toothpaste, giving her a wink before opening the door and stepping out into the hallway, still gloriously, unselfconsciously nude.
The door clicked shut behind him. Debbie stood frozen, the hairbrush hanging limply at her side. The steam swirled lazily around her. The only sounds were the drip of the faucet and the frantic, galloping rhythm of her own heart trying to escape her chest. Routine. He wanted to make this a routine. The humid air pressed in, thick with the scent of his soap, his skin, and the dizzying, terrifying promise of tomorrow morning.