Episode 3
It’s just past midnight, and outside, the rain is falling hard, pounding against the roof.
It’s soothing in a way that makes the world feel smaller, quieter. And the patrons inside the bathhouse will likely stay longer, until it lets up.
I rest my arms on the front desk, pretending to read an old paperback someone left behind. The edges are curled from steam, the cover damp. I’m not really reading, just passing time, waiting for the night to thicken.
That’s when he walks in.
Drenched, hoodie clinging to his back, jeans soaked to the knees. He doesn’t carry an umbrella or a bag. He doesn’t look up at me, just signs in, pays in cash, and doesn’t say a word.
But something about the way he moves—too fast, like he’s trying to outrun something—makes me pay attention.
He takes the key to locker 14 and disappears into the hallway without looking back.
I rarely follow guests with my eyes. I’ve learned not to. But this one? Something pulls at me. A silence around him that feels loud. A shadow he brought with him that hasn’t let go.
I wait five minutes, then I grab a towel, say I’m doing rounds, and head toward the showers. The hiss of steam and water reaches my ears before I even turn the corner. Most nights, they’re full of noise—grunts, slaps, someone laughing too loud. But now, it’s quiet.
I spot him instantly. Far end of the row, back to the wall.
Water is pouring over his head like he’s trying to wash something off that isn’t on his skin.
His arms are braced against the tile, thick shoulders hunched.
He hasn’t even taken off his clothes. The dark fabric molds to his body, highlighting every curve and ridge.
He hasn’t seen me. Or maybe he has and doesn’t care. I should turn around. I should finish my fake towel run and head back to the desk.
But I don’t. Of course, I don’t. Where would be the fun in that?
Something about the way he doesn’t move—not even to push the water from his eyes— draws me in with curiosity. The man just stands there, dripping, like he needs to erase something or wash himself clean. Like the rain outside wasn’t enough.
Eventually, he speaks. “I know you’re there.”
His voice carries, not loud, but clear. Ragged at the edges.
“I’m not here to bother you,” I assure him. “Just doing rounds.”
He doesn’t look back. “You always talk to the ones who don’t want to be seen?”
I step closer, close enough to feel the steam on my skin. “Only the ones who look like they’re trying too hard to disappear.”
That gets him. He moves under the spray just enough for me to see the line of his clenched jaw and then fully turns to face me, blinking through the water. His dark eyes lock on me with… not anger, not even annoyance or fear.
There’s something in his face. Something asking.
I take another step in. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I’m not just a voice anymore. I’m a presence.
The air between us is thick with steam and something heavier, like a held breath that hasn’t found its way out yet.
He watches me, water cascading down his face, dark lashes clumped, lips parted slightly. His shirt clings to his chest, and the outline of him is sharp now. Vulnerable in a different way. Not exposed—stripped.
“What happened?” I ask.
He laughs once, short and bitter. “Don’t know you.”
“I don’t have to know you to see when someone’s running.”
He leans back against the tile, tilting his head toward the ceiling. Letting the water hit his throat, his mouth. His eyes stay closed.
“I didn’t come here for a conversation.”
“Then why did you?”
That makes him pause. He opens his eyes again, blinking slowly.
“I don’t know,” he says, voice rough now. “Habit. Desperation. Bad idea.”
I nod. “I’ve seen worse reasons.”
The silence stretches, both of us breathing too loudly. Then he says, without looking at me, “You’re not like the others who work here.”
“No.”
“You’re watching me.”
“Yes.”
He turns to me then, really turns. The water falls down his arms, his chest, soaking into the cotton clinging to his skin. There’s something hungry in his gaze, but not for sex.
For relief. For someone to stay.
I take one more step. Close enough now that if I reached out, I could press my hand to the center of his chest and feel his heartbeat beneath the damp fabric. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move away. He says nothing. And neither do I.
We just stand there until the water starts to cool. I don’t know what he needs from me, but if I give him space, maybe he’ll ask for it.
He’s shivering now, and I have a feeling it’s not from the cold, but whatever’s caught in his chest and can’t find its way out.
His hands hang at his sides, soaked, clenched, useless.
He turns the water off with a sudden twist—too fast, too sharp.
The pipes groan in protest. Silence fills the space where the spray used to be.
And still, he doesn’t move.
I reach behind me and pull a towel off the hook. Stepping forward, I hold it out to him and wait. He watches me like he’s not sure I’m real. Then he nods once, slowly, silent words spoken loudly.
I drape it over his shoulders. My hands linger just long enough to let him feel they’re not there to take anything, just to cover him. To warm him. Anchor him.
He closes his eyes, and I don’t say a word.
He doesn’t have to explain why he came here like that. Why his body looks like it’s carrying too many stories, and none of them end well. I’ve seen the shape of grief before. I’ve worn it. It doesn’t need a name tonight.
“Do you want to sit somewhere dry?” I ask quietly.
He nods again, slower this time.
And when I guide him out of the showers, he follows. I lead him down the hallway slowly, afraid he’ll change his mind and bolt. Room 6 is empty. Clean. Dim light spills from the fixture above the mirror, barely enough to cast shadows.
I unlock the door and hold it open for him.
He steps inside first, towel still tightly wrapped around his shoulders, wet clothes clinging to his frame. I follow and close the door behind us. The soft click of it echoes louder than it should.
He doesn’t sit right away. Just stands there, looking around like he’s never been in this kind of space before. Like he’s used to doors being open. Exits always close.
I move to the bench along the wall and sit, giving him space. Letting him decide.
He finally lowers himself onto the sofa across from me. Legs wide, elbows on his knees. The towel slips a little, revealing the line of his collarbone. His shirt’s soaked through. I can see the shape of him underneath.
He doesn’t speak. So I do.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened.”
He nods.
“I just didn’t want you alone in that shower.”
Another pause. Then, quietly, “Thanks.”
It’s the first real word he’s given me. Not deflection. Not defense. Just thanks.
“I can go,” I offer. “If you want time.”
His eyes flick up to meet mine. “No,” he says. Then again, softer, “No. Don’t.”
Something like relief warms me, which is odd since I don’t know this man. I move closer, not touching, not prying. Just sitting in the half-light, letting the quiet settle around us. Letting him feel what it’s like not to be alone when things fall apart.
His breathing evens out slowly. His shoulders drop. The towel falls completely now, pooling behind him on the back of the couch.
Still, I don’t move.
His hand moves first, not toward me, but toward himself. Fingers pressing into the edge of his soaked shirt, peeling it up inch by inch. The fabric clings, reluctant, but he doesn’t rush. It’s not a performance. It’s a release, like he’s stripping away the bad energy that followed him in here.
When the shirt comes off, he drops it to the floor with a wet slap.
I see everything now—his chest, lean and tight with restraint, the faint trail of hair down his abdomen, a few old scars that don’t look like stories he’s ready to tell.
He doesn’t hide. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me, breathing steady now, and says, “Can I sit with you?”
It hits harder than anything else.
“Yeah,” I murmur, quietly but with confidence. “Come here.”
He closes the space between us without hesitation. Not fast. Not slow. Just decided. And when he’s close beside me, his thigh pressed warm against mine, I feel him exhale like he hasn’t taken a full breath all night.
I lift my arm, and he leans into it.
His skin is warm despite the wetness. His chest touches mine. Our heads tilt inward at the same time, instinctively. His nose brushes my cheek, lips grazing near my jaw.
He doesn’t kiss me, just lets his breath settle against my skin. But his fingers find mine and thread through them. And when he speaks again, it’s barely above a breath.
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Whatever you need.”
His mouth meets mine then, tentative at first, testing the shape of it, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. I answer without words, tipping into him, letting him lead.
The kiss deepens, hungry, not hurried. We taste like rain and heat and nerves, and something more desperate under that. Something that’s been waiting for a long time to feel safe enough to ask.
My hand slides up his spine, damp skin meeting mine. He trembles, not from cold. From everything leaving him all at once.
I hold him tighter. We don’t speak.
His hand slips under my shirt, fingers brushing my ribs. His touch is light but purposeful, like he’s not exploring my body so much as grounding himself with it.
I let him pull the shirt off, and then we’re bare from the waist up, chest to chest, skin warming skin. His breath hitches at the contact, his eyes flicking up to mine, searching.
I don’t ask what he sees. I just lean forward again, kissing him deeper this time, our mouths finding rhythm. The tension that wrapped tightly around him earlier is loosening now. He opens under my hands, inch by inch, without words.
His pants are still soaked, and when I reach for the button, he pulls back, his body going rigid.