Debbie is a 45 year old single mother with chestnut brown hair. She is training to be a masseuse. Her son has moved away for college. To keep her company and to help pay the bills, she rents out a spare room to Matt, a 21 year old college student with brown hair, hazel eyes, an athletic figure, and a modestly hairy chest with a dark trail of hair down to his penis. Matt has only recently moved in. As summer begins, Matt beings to wear less clothing around the house. He is not shy, and is oblivious to the effect he has on women. Debbie secretly enjoys it. The two share a bathroom where they sometimes run into each other.

Chapter 10: The Morning After

The morning after the massage, Debbie drifted towards the bathroom in a fog of unsettled sleep. Images of smooth skin under her palms had twisted into strange dreams, leaving her feeling raw and exposed, as if she’d been the one laid bare on the floor. She pushed the door open without knocking, a habit formed in a house that had been empty for months.

Steam billowed out, warm and thick, carrying the clean, neutral scent of his body wash. The window was cracked, a feeble breeze struggling against the humidity.

Matt stood at the sink, leaning towards the mirror. He was humming something off-key, a pop song she didn’t recognize. And he was utterly, completely naked.

The world contracted to a series of startling details. The water droplet tracing the deep groove of his spine. The powerful, defined curve of his shoulder as he raised his right arm to steady himself. The pale, perfect globe of his backside. The towel, a limp blue rag, was draped over the shower rail behind him, out of reach.

Debbie’s brain short-circuited. Her body locked. Her hand remained on the doorknob, cold against her palm.

He saw her in the mirror. His eyes, meeting hers in the glass, crinkled in a friendly smile. He didn’t startle. He didn’t grab for a cover. He simply paused his humming.

“Hey, Deb. Morning.” His voice was raspy with sleep, utterly normal. He turned his head slightly, a dollop of white shaving cream on his jawline. “Sorry, just finishing up. One sec.”

He went back to scraping the razor down his neck, the action fluid and domestic. The muscles in his forearm corded with the movement. She could see the full, unobserved profile of him now in the mirror’s reflection: the modest dusting of hair across his pectorals, the dark trail she’d imagined now a real path leading decisively down his flat abdomen, disappearing into a thatch of dark, wet curls.

This was not the curated, distant form from the night before. This was casual. Functional. Unselfconsciously male.

“I… the steam…” she managed, her voice a dry leaf rattling in her throat. “I didn’t realize you were in here.”

“No worries,” he said, rinsing the razor under the tap. Water sluiced down his neck, over his collarbone.