The silence between you isn't awkward.
It's electrified.
His fingers linger at the edge of your towel, not tugging, just there—burning.
You should shove him.
You should scream.
But you don't.
Instead, your eyes flick up... and meet his.
And that's all it takes.
He moves.
Not fast.
Not rough.
He tilts his head just slightly,
like he's studying you.
As if this is some experiment he's tried a thousand times in his mind,
and now—
finally—
he gets to test it.
"You're not stopping me,"
he whispers,
so close you feel it in your gut.
You still don't speak.
And then—
he kisses you.
It starts soft.
Just the barest press of lips,
slow and unhurried.
But it doesn't stay that way.
Because when you sigh—
just a little—
he deepens it.
His hand slides up your waist.
Your fingers
tangle in the hem of his shirt.
The towel barely holds.
"God, you're impossible,"
he groans against your mouth.
"And I still want you."
Your back hits the wall.
He cages you in—
arms on either side of your head.
Kisses trail along your jaw.
Down your neck.
He bites, gently.
Marking you
because he knows
you'll mark him back.
"Still hate me?"
he asks,
lips brushing your collarbone.
You gasp.
You answer:
Pulling him back in and kiss him
like you're trying to ruin him.
Because maybe
You Are
You don't know who pulls away first.
It's not clean. It's not calm. It's breathless and messy and hot.
His hand is still at your waist.
Your fingers still clutch the fabric of his shirt like you'll fall without it.
He's flushed. Just slightly.
And you hate how it makes you ache.
"We should stop,"
you whisper.
He chuckles.
Low and dangerous.
"Then stop me."
You don't.
Instead, you step away.
You both pretend like you're going to play it cool.
But the way he watches you
as you walk across the room—
You feel it.
Heavy. Possessive. Waiting.
"There's only one bed,"
you mutter,
pointing out the obvious.
He shrugs.
"You want the left side or the right?"
You narrow your eyes.
"We're not sleeping together."
"Of course not."
His smirk returns.
"We'll be on opposite sides. Fully clothed.
Full of regrets."
"I don't regret it."
That stops him.
He looks at you then—
really looks at you.
"Good,"
he says softly.
"Because I don't either."
⸻
You lie back-to-back.
Sheets cool.
Air tense.
He doesn't touch you.
But his voice,
just before sleep,
is low and real:
"You hated me for being arrogant."
"But I only acted like..
I didn't want you...
because if I let it show—"
He swallows.
"I knew I'd never stop."
You don't respond.
But you don't sleep, either.
Because now you're wondering what else he's still hiding.