Chapter 4: The Shared Laundry
The apology died in her throat. Her gaze, traitorous and hungry, slid down again. Past the taut hollow of his navel, the dark trail she’d only glimpsed before now a detailed map leading down. Her breath caught.
It was… magnificent. Thick-rooted and heavy, resting soft against his thigh. The steam from the shower seemed to cling to it, highlighting a quiet, unselfconscious potency. A completely relaxed, ordinary part of him, which made the sight feel even more profoundly intimate. Her fingers, resting against the doorframe, twitched with a memory of their own—the kneading of tense shoulders, the seeking of pressure points. An ache, deep and low, bloomed within her.
“Earth to Debbie?”
She snapped her head up, her face scalding. He was smiling, bemused, one eyebrow slightly raised. He hadn’t moved to cover himself. The towel was still just a damp rag over his shoulder.
“Sorry,” she breathed, the word barely audible. “Miles away.”
“No worries. Just asked if you needed in here. I’m basically done.” He turned, finally, presenting the sculpted planes of his back, the twin dimples just above his waist. The view was almost as devastating. “Gotta run to a study group in twenty.”
“Right. Yes. Please.” She was babbling. She stepped fully into the bathroom, the humid air wrapping around her like a second skin, saturated with his scent—clean sweat, Ivory soap, young male. He squeezed past her in the narrow space, his damp arm brushing her bare shoulder.
A jolt, electric and sharp, shot through her.
“Oops, sorry,” he said, his tone easy, unaware of the miniature earthquake he’d just triggered. He padded out into the hallway, leaving wet footprints on the worn floorboards. “Have a good one, Deb!”
And then he was gone, the sound of his whistling fading down the hall toward his room.
Debbie stood, rooted to the cracked linoleum. The mirror was still fogged from his shower. Slowly, as if in a trance, she lifted her hand and wiped a clear arc across the glass. Her own reflection appeared: wide hazel eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted. She looked… unraveled. The careful, maternal composure she wore like a favorite cardigan was lying in a heap at her feet.
She could still smell him. It was in the steam, on the towel he’d left hanging on the back of the door. She picked it up. It was damp and warm. The coarse terrycloth felt intimate in her hands. She dropped it as if burned.