The lock clicks. The door opens.
My eyes lift—searching for him, desperate—to see him, to make sure he's okay, to demand an explanation—
I freeze.
Bryan stands in the doorway.
His hair is damp, slicked back from his forehead, still glistening with water. Droplets trail along his shoulders and collarbones, slipping down the defined lines of his chest. His skin is warm, faintly flushed, like he's just stepped out of a hot shower.
A white towel hangs low on his hips, loosely secured, exposing the hard lines of his abdomen and the sharp curve of bone beneath—skin usually hidden beneath tailored clothes.
He leans against the doorframe with the easy arrogance of someone who owns the space— like he belongs here, like this is his place, like I don't.
One arm crosses over his chest, the other braced against the frame, fingers tapping idly against the wood. He blocks the doorway completely— not just standing there, but claiming it.
My body goes cold.
