The door creaked softly as Ethan stepped into the dimly lit hostel room. His roommate lay curled on the narrow bed by the window, breathing slow and deep, untouched by the heat that clung to the walls like a second skin. Ethan dropped his worn canvas bag onto the desk—a desk that had never known the weight of textbooks or the scratch of a pen. It was a surface reserved for survival: bills, pay stubs, and the occasional instant noodle packet 🍜.
He peeled off his sweat-stained shirt and headed to the shared bathroom down the hall. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead as he stepped into the stall, the cracked tiles cool beneath his feet. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, and the world narrowed to steam and silence 🌫️.
Ethan peeled off his shirt with one hand, the fabric clinging briefly to the sweat along his spine before falling to the floor. His movements were unhurried, almost lazy, like his body had memorized this ritual long ago.
He turned the faucet, and the water sputtered before settling into a steady stream. He stepped under it, and it hit him in waves—first his shoulders, then his chest, then the slope of his back. His head tilted slightly, eyes closed, lips parted just enough to breathe. The water ran down his skin like it had been waiting for him 🚿.
He didn't pose. He didn't need to.
His body was lean, all quiet strength and subtle definition. The kind of physique that didn't scream for attention but held it anyway. His collarbones caught the light, his hips moved with a natural rhythm, and the curve of his lower back disappeared into shadow. Even the way he reached for the soap—one hand, slow, deliberate—felt like something out of a dream ✨.
He lathered without urgency, fingers gliding over his chest, down his stomach, across the sharp lines of his waist. The soap traced the V of his hips, the dip of his navel, the firm roundness of his ass. Every motion was practical, but there was a kind of intimacy in it. Like he was touching himself not to seduce, but to feel clean. To feel human.
The steam curled around him, softening the edges of his silhouette. His wet hair clung to his forehead, a few strands trailing down his temple. Water dripped from his jaw, slid down his throat, and disappeared between his shoulder blades.
He leaned forward, one hand braced against the wall, and exhaled. The sound was quiet, but it carried weight. Not exhaustion, exactly—more like a release. Like he'd been holding something in all day, and the water was the only thing that could take it from him 🫧.
There was no mirror in the bathroom, but if there had been, he wouldn't have looked. Ethan didn't need to see himself to know the effect he had. It wasn't vanity. It was inevitability.
His jawline, sharp and shadowed with stubble, clenched as his thoughts drifted. The image of his mother's bruised eye surfaced, uninvited. He had seen it earlier that day when he stopped by the coffee shop to hand her a folded envelope—his earnings from the week. She had smiled, but her eyes betrayed her. That smile had always been her armor 🛡️.
The rent, the food, the school fees for his sister—all weighed on her shoulders. And now, on his. His father's failed business had left more than debt; it had left scars. The man who once taught him how to ride a bike now spent his days drunk, bitter, and violent. Ethan had escaped that house, but not the guilt.
He turned off the tap, and the silence rushed in. He reached for the towel, wrapped it low around his hips, and stepped out into the dim light. His skin glowed faintly, still damp, still warm. His walk was casual, almost careless, but every step felt like a promise 🔥.
Effortless. That was the word.
Back in the room, he towel-dried his hair, droplets trailing down his neck and spine. He didn't bother with a shirt. The hostel was stifling, the fan broken, and the window barely offered relief. He lay down on the thin mattress, the springs groaning beneath him. His chest rose and fell slowly, the weight of the day pressing into him like gravity 🌒.
Outside, the city hummed. Inside, Ethan closed his eyes—not to sleep, but to forget. Just for a few hours.