Chapter 18: Chapter 18
The styptic pencil felt absurdly small in his fingers. Matt frowned at it, turning it over like some unfamiliar artifact. "Uh... how...?" He glanced at her in the mirror, then down at the tiny nub, clearly at a loss. Water dripped from his hair onto his shoulder.
Debbie’s heart hammered against her ribs. The towel was suddenly the only thing anchoring her to reality. "Here," she repeated, her voice a notch higher than intended. "Let me." The impulse hadn't faded. It surged. "It’s easier. You need to wet the tip first." She held out her hand, palm up.
He hesitated for only a fraction of a second, the slight confusion clearing from his hazel eyes. "Oh. Okay. Thanks, Debbie." He handed it back, his fingers brushing hers. A spark. Static, probably. Had to be.
He shifted then, turning fully away from the mirror to face her. The movement brought him shockingly close. Naked. Chest damp, water tracing paths through the light dusting of hair. The scent of his shower gel – something sharp and clean – mingled with the lingering steam and the sharper tang of shaving cream. His gaze was direct, open, trusting as he tilted his head slightly, exposing the small, bright bead of blood just below his jawline.
Debbie’s breath hitched. The bathroom felt impossibly small, the air thick and hard to pull into her lungs. She fumbled with the styptic pencil, running its end quickly under the tap. Her hands trembled. Focus. Just the cut. Don’t look down. Don’t. Look. Down.
She stepped in, the worn linoleum cool under her bare feet. Raising her arm, she pressed the dampened tip of the pencil against the nick. His skin was warm, smooth except for the stubble. He flinched.
"Ouch! Shit, that stings!" He sucked in a breath but held still, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere over her shoulder.
"It stings a bit," she murmured, her voice tight. She held it firm for a few seconds, applying pressure, acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, the sheer proximity of him. Her knuckles were inches from the hard plane of his chest. Her towel felt perilously thin. Flimsy. Her gaze, inevitably, flickered downward. Just for an instant.
It was impossible not to see. The relaxed weight of him, nestled in dark curls. Thick. Unmistakable. A current, hot and urgent, shot straight through her core. She snatched her eyes back to his neck, feeling the flush scorch her face, her neck, spreading down her chest beneath the towel. Her fingers shook violently on the pencil.
"Okay," she blurted, pulling her hand back as if burned. Her voice cracked. "That should do it. Stops the bleeding." The tiny nick was barely visible now, just a faint white spot where the styptic had worked.
Matt exhaled, relaxing. He touched the spot gingerly. "Yeah. Thanks. Feels weirdly... chalky?" He offered her a small, grateful smile, completely oblivious to the seismic shift happening inside her. "Didn't know these things existed. Handy."
Debbie couldn't meet his eyes. She clutched the styptic pencil like a lifeline, her knuckles white. "Medicine cabinet essential," she managed, forcing a weak smile she knew didn't reach her eyes. She quickly shoved the pencil back onto the shelf, the clatter loud in the humid silence.
Matt turned back to the mirror, picking up his razor again. He dipped it under the tap, the water swirling pink for a second before clearing. The scrape of blade on skin resumed, rhythmic, intimate. Oblivious.
Debbie picked up her hairbrush again, her reflection pale and wide-eyed in the misty glass. She dragged the bristles through her damp hair, the motion jerky. Her gaze, against her will, drifted back down Matt's reflection. Down the strong line of his back, the curve of his ass, the powerful thighs. And lower. Her breath caught. Her body felt simultaneously frozen and feverish. The towel suddenly seemed like a ridiculous, inadequate shield. The air pressed in, heavy with steam and the scent of him and the charged silence broken only by the scrape-scrape-scrape of the razor.
She watched, mesmerized despite herself, as he methodically finished shaving the other side of his face. He rinsed the razor, splashed water on his face, running wet hands through his damp hair. He grabbed the towel from his neck and roughly dried his face and chest. Then, completely at ease, he dropped the towel on the edge of the sink… and just stood there. Glancing in the mirror, running a hand over his smooth jaw, checking for missed spots. Totally unselfconscious. Totally exposed.
Debbie’s brush stopped mid-stroke. Her reflection stared back at her, lips slightly parted. The intimacy of the moment, his casual nudity, the lingering feel of his skin under her fingers – it was too much. The brush clattered into the sink.
"Right," she stammered, the word sharp in the quiet. She grabbed the edges of her towel, pulling it tighter. "Coffee. I should... coffee." She didn't look at him, couldn't. She turned and practically fled, the bathroom door swinging shut behind her with a soft thud, leaving Matt blinking at her sudden departure in the mirror, a faintly puzzled expression on his freshly shaved face.
"Uh... okay? Thanks again for the... stick thing, Debbie," his voice followed her faintly down the hall. Her bare feet slapped against the cool hallway floor, the sound echoing the frantic rhythm of her heart. The silk robe hanging on her bedroom door seemed miles away, yet flimsier than ever.