Chapter 1: The Shower Slip
The steam was the first thing to go, thick and humid, clinging to the tiles and fogging the mirror into a useless gray slate. I stood under the spray, head bowed, letting the hot water beat the stiffness from my shoulders after a long run. The world was reduced to the drumming on my skull and the citrus sting of my shampoo.
The curtain ripped back.
A blast of cooler air hit my skin. I flinched, wiping water from my eyes.
Stu stood frozen in the doorway, gym bag dangling from his hand, his keys still jangling. His eyes, wide and startled, didn’t go to my face. They dropped, locked on, and stuck. The apology died on his lips. I didn’t move. He didn’t move.
The only sound was the hiss of the shower and the drip from the tap.
It was a long, five-second lifetime. I watched his expression shift from shock to something else, something calculating and hungry, a look that traveled over me like a physical touch. It wasn’t the casual, appreciative glance you might give a stranger at the pool. This was specific. Intent.
He was looking at my cock.
A weird heat flushed through me that had nothing to do with the water. It was part embarrassment, part something else—a blunt recognition of being seen in a way I wasn’t used to. I’d known I was bigger than average, sure. You don’t get through locker rooms and a couple of drunken college girlfriends without piecing that together. But I’d never had it inspected like a museum piece. Especially not by Stu.
“Shit,” he finally breathed, the word more exhale than apology. His eyes snapped up to mine, and he tried to plaster on his usual grin. It didn’t reach his eyes. “My bad, dude. Thought you were done.”
He didn’t move. He just kept standing there, holding the curtain open, letting the steam pour out.
“Curtain,” I said, my voice rough.
“Right. Yeah.” He let the vinyl fall closed, but the shadow of him stayed blurred on the other side for another second before I heard his retreating footsteps.
The bathroom door clicked shut.
I turned the water to cold, shocking my system. The easy confidence I usually wore felt misplaced, rumpled. I replayed it in my head. The look. It wasn’t just surprise. It was interest. Stark, undisguised interest.
By the time I’d toweled off and pulled on sweats, the apartment had settled into an odd silence. The TV was off. I could hear him in the kitchen, the clink of a blender jar.
He was pouring a thick, pale shake into two glasses when I walked in. He didn’t look up.
“Made you one,” he said, his voice carefully normal. He slid a glass across the breakfast bar. “Extra protein. You’re looking a little lean after that run.”
I took the glass. It was cold. “Since when do you make me protein shakes?”
“Since I’m trying to be a better roommate.” He finally met my gaze, taking a sip from his own glass. “And since you could use some more mass. Seriously. You’ve got a good frame, Ben. With a little dedicated work, you’d be a beast.”
This was his new thing. The gym invites. The comments about my diet. It had started a few weeks ago, right after his nasty breakup with Mark. At first, I’d written it off as Stu just needing a project, a distraction. He was always extra restless after a split.
Now, with the bathroom scene seared into my brain, the commentary felt different. It felt targeted.
“I’m good,” I said, but I took a swallow. It tasted chalky and sweet.
“You’re not good, you’re average,” he said, a flicker of his old, playful smirk returning. “Your words, not mine. You said you wanted to bench two-forty by summer. That takes commitment. And fuel.” His eyes flickered down my torso, then back up, clinical and appraising. “Your pectorals are underdeveloped. Your lats could be wider. It’s a waste of potential.”
It was the kind of thing he’d say at the gym, to anyone. But here, in our kitchen, with me in just sweats and my hair still wet, it felt intensely personal. My skin prickled where his gaze had landed.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said, finishing the shake to have something to do.
He watched me drink, his own glass poised near his lips. The quiet stretched, thick and uncomfortable. The easy back-and-forth we’d had for three years of sharing a place was gone, replaced by this new, charged static.
“About before,” he started, then stopped. He put his glass down carefully. “Really, man. I didn’t mean to barge in like that.”
“It’s fine,” I said, too quickly.
“It was just… unexpected.” A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face. It wasn’t his usual easy grin. This one was sharper, knowing. “You’re full of surprises, Ben.”
He picked up his gym bag, the one he’d been holding when he saw me. He gave me a small, final nod, and walked to his room. The door closed with a soft, definitive click.
I stood alone in the kitchen, the aftertaste of the protein shake sour on my tongue. The apartment felt different. The air felt different. I looked down at my own body, at the frame he’d just so coolly assessed, and for the first time, I saw it through his eyes. A project. A potential. A quest.
The chill from the shower was gone, replaced by a low, confused warmth. I wasn’t flattered. Not exactly. I was… seen. And I had no idea what, if anything, I was supposed to do about it.