The next morning, the sun had barely begun to burn through the mist when a rhythmic rustling woke Jim from a fitful sleep. He blinked, his mind still heavy with the remnants of a dream he was already trying to forget, and rolled over.
The sight that met him was like a physical blow to the stomach.
Mauwa was standing in the center of the room, fresh from the shower, his skin still radiating a damp heat. He was completely naked, caught in the casual act of reaching for a pair of boxers on his bed. From Jim's low vantage point on his own mattress, he was faced with the undeniable, powerful reality of Mauwa's physique—specifically the firm, powerful sculpt of his backside.
Jim's heart did a violent somersault. He scrambled backward, nearly tangling himself in his sheets, his face turning a shade of purple-red.
"What are you doing?!" Jim yelled, his voice cracking with a mixture of shock and sheer panic. "Have you no shame? Put something on!"
Mauwa didn't flinch. He slowly pulled on the boxers, then turned around, looking at Jim with that maddeningly calm expression. "Good morning to you too, Jim. And I'm getting dressed. It's what people do after a shower."
"Not in front of other people!" Jim hissed, his eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling to avoid seeing another inch of skin. "This is inappropriate! It's—it's indecent!"
Mauwa let out a short, dry laugh. "Inappropriate? Jim, we're both men. It's a locker room reality. What's wrong with one man seeing another man's body? Unless," he paused, his voice dropping an octave, "you're finding it hard to look for reasons other than 'indecency.'"
"I am a future priest!" Jim barked, finally sitting up but keeping his gaze strictly on his own knees. "I value modesty. I value the sanctity of the body. You're just... you're behaving like an animal."
"An animal? That's a bit harsh," Mauwa said. He reached down and picked up something Jim hadn't noticed before—a worn, professional-grade rugby ball. He tossed it into the air and caught it with one hand.
Jim stared at the ball. The realization hit him like a tackle. The broad shoulders, the powerful legs, the firm, "well-sculptured" physique he had just been forced to witness—it wasn't just genetics. Mauwa was an athlete.
"You play rugby?" Jim asked, his voice losing some of its venom to genuine surprise.
"Fly-half for the university," Mauwa said, a hint of pride in his voice. He spun the ball on his finger. "It's a game of contact and strength, Jim. You should try it sometime. Might help you get some of that repressed energy out."
Jim bristled again, the "repressed" comment stinging because it felt too accurate. "I don't have time for games. I have a calling."
Mauwa shrugged, pulling a university jersey over his head. "Suit yourself. Anyway, I'm heading out. The university is right next to your high school. I've got the car today—want a ride? It beats the bus."
Jim looked at Mauwa—now fully dressed but still vibrating with that terrifying, athletic magnetism—and then at the door. The idea of being trapped in the small, enclosed space of a car with him, smelling his soap and feeling the heat of his presence, was more than Jim could handle.
"No," Jim said sharply, standing up and grabbing his school uniform. "I'll take the bus. I prefer the time to meditate."
"Mediate or hide?" Mauwa asked with a wink. He tucked the rugby ball under his arm and headed for the door. "See you at dinner, Jim. Try not to miss me too much."
As the door clicked shut, Jim collapsed back onto his bed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He needed to get to school.
Jim rushed down the front steps ten minutes too late, tying the knot of his school tie with frantic haste. He reached the curb just in time to see the yellow rear of the school bus turn the distant corner, disappearing into the morning mist.
"Blast it," Jim muttered, slamming his fist against his thigh. He looked at his watch. If he didn't leave immediately, he would be late for morning assembly, earning a black mark that would certainly make its way back to his father's desk.
He couldn't ask his mother for a ride; she'd quiz him endlessly about his lateness. He certainly couldn't tell his father. Missing the bus was a sign of disorder, a failure of preparation—the exact lack of "discipline" Father Oliver had preached about last night. The lecture would be exhaustive.
Jim threw his heavy backpack over one shoulder and began to walk at a punishing pace. The school wasn't too far, but he would be sweaty, exhausted, and probably late. He kept his eyes fixed on the pavement, calculating the shortest route, focusing on the rhythmic pound of his expensive leather shoes.
He had walked for about ten minutes, his anxiety mounting with every passing minute, when a sleek, dark sedan slowed and pulled over right next to him.
The passenger window hummed down, revealing the infuriatingly handsome face of Mauwa Gene. He was already changed into casual clothes, having clearly dropped off his rugby gear and perhaps had a coffee, looking fresh, relaxed, and entirely too pleased with himself.
"Looking for a ride, Future Priest?" Mauwa asked, his smile wide and challenging. "Told you our routes were the same. The universe conspires to put me in your presence, Jim."
"No," Jim said curtly, speeding up his walk and refusing to make eye contact. "I am walking. I prefer the fresh air."
"Oh, come on, Jim. You'll be late," Mauwa persisted, idling the car beside him. "It's a twenty-minute drive, and you're lugging a theological library on your back. Just get in. Unless you're afraid of the devil behind the wheel."
"I am not afraid of anything," Jim shot back, resentment fueling his strides. "And I don't need your charity."
"This isn't charity; it's pragmatism," Mauwa retorted, his tone hardening slightly. He stopped the car completely, putting it in park, and leaned across the seat, resting his arm on the passenger headrest. "Look. Get in the car, or I will get out and physically carry you to the front seat."
Jim froze. He turned to face Mauwa, his face contorted in disbelief. "You wouldn't dare."
Mauwa just raised an eyebrow, a clear threat in his gaze. "Try me. You saw the evidence this morning. You know I can. And if I have to physically manhandle you into this car, your father will hear about the spectacle we caused on the street, which I assure you, will be much worse than explaining a late bus."
Jim's mind raced. He looked at Mauwa's athletic frame, remembering the fluid power and defined musculature he had just witnessed in the bedroom. He was in his tailored school uniform, while Mauwa was in comfortable, easy-to-move-in clothes. If Jim tried to run, Mauwa, the university rugby player, would effortlessly overtake him. If Jim tried to fight, he would be overpowered and thoroughly humiliated.
He was trapped. Again.
Jim let out a slow, tortured sigh of surrender. He wrenched the passenger door open, hurled his backpack onto the floorboard, and slid into the seat, slamming the door shut. He kept his body angled away from Mauwa, his arms crossed tight over his chest.
"Fine," Jim muttered, staring out the window. "But don't say a single word to me until we get there."
Mauwa chuckled—a deep, victorious sound that vibrated through the car's cabin. He pulled the sedan smoothly back into traffic.
"Deal," Mauwa agreed. "But don't mistake compliance for consent, Jim. You're not quite as opaque as you think you are."
The sleek sedan glided smoothly through the residential streets, but inside, the atmosphere was anything but comfortable. Jim sat rigid, pressed against the passenger door as if the car itself were shrinking. His eyes were locked on the passing scenery—trees, fences, other anonymous commuters—anything to avoid glancing at the man beside him.
Mauwa, true to his word, didn't speak. He drove with a relaxed proficiency, one hand resting lightly on the wheel. Yet, his silence was louder, more provocative than any of his earlier taunts. Jim could feel the subtle heat radiating off Mauwa's body, the faint smell of his morning soap and cologne filling the enclosed space. It was a suffocating intimacy.
Jim tried to focus on his mantra: I am Jim Oliver. I am disciplined. I am the future man of God.
But the discipline was failing.
His attention was involuntarily drawn to Mauwa's hands on the steering wheel—strong, competent hands with slightly calloused knuckles, hands that gripped a rugby ball, hands that had just pulled on a pair of boxers inches from his face. Jim quickly averted his gaze, ashamed of the scrutiny, but the image lingered.
He forced himself to think about his mission for the day.
Mauwa cleared his throat. Jim flinched. Mauwa didn't speak, but he reached out to turn on the radio, filling the car with a quiet, modern pop song—not the soothing hymns Jim expected or preferred, but something light and secular, another subtle reminder of the world Jim was trying to deny.
They reached an intersection and stopped at a red light. The sudden halt made the silence more acute. Jim risked a quick glance, intending only to check the traffic, but his eyes snagged on Mauwa's profile.
Mauwa wasn't looking at him; he was looking ahead, a contemplative, serious look replacing his usual teasing smirk. He ran a thumb over his bottom lip, a gesture Jim found utterly mesmerizing and infuriatingly distracting.
The light changed. As Mauwa shifted gears and accelerated, his arm brushed lightly against Jim's. The contact was brief, accidental, yet it sent a searing jolt through Jim's nervous system. He inhaled sharply, pulling his arm in tight against his side as if protecting a vital organ.
Mauwa glanced over, his eyes finally meeting Jim's. There was no mockery in his expression now, only a kind of quiet, penetrating curiosity.
"You really hate this, don't you?" Mauwa asked, his voice low and devoid of humor.
"I hate your constant lack of respect for my boundaries," Jim managed, his voice shaky. "I am trying to remain focused. You are making it impossible."
Mauwa drove another block in silence. "Maybe," he said finally, pulling up to a crosswalk where a stream of students in Jim's uniform were heading toward the gate. "But Jim, sometimes the things that make us feel the most uncomfortable are the things we need to look at the longest."
He stopped the car right in front of the main school gate.
"Have a good day, Jim," Mauwa said, leaning over slightly.
Jim didn't reply. He snatched his bag, pushed the door open, and practically stumbled out of the car, desperate to escape the intense confinement. He didn't look back as Mauwa drove away.