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Strong arms.

Those goddamn V-lines.

And he knows he looks good. I can tell from the way his fingers flex at his sides, like he’s hyper-aware of my eyes dragging over him.

And then, oh, baby, and then, he yanks off his scrub pants.

No hesitation.

No warning.

Just drops them like this is some casual Tuesday morning routine.

My brain malfunctions.

I knew. I watched him sleep commando. I knew. But this is different. Awake and participating.

He turns toward the shower, stepping inside with zero shame, like we didn’t just have a whole-ass hostage negotiation, over fries, in the middle of a concrete bunker.

And I… well. I follow.

Because duh.

The water is already hot, steam curling in the air. Evan tilts his head under the spray, muscles shifting, shoulders rolling, tension melting just slightly.

He exhales.

And for a split second, he forgets I’m here.

Until I reach past him for the soap.

His whole body locks up.

I hum, rubbing the bar between my hands, lathering up as my gaze drags over him.

“Relax,” I purr. “You’ll enjoy it more.”

He makes a low sound in his throat, half a scoff, half something else. “Not happening.”

But then I step closer.

So close I can feel his heat, the barest brush of his skin against mine, the water sliding between us.

I tilt my head, dragging my gaze up his bare chest, trailing suds over my palm.

He swallows.

I smile. “Want me to get your back?”

His nostrils flare. “No.”

I laugh. “Aw, you’re shy.”

His jaw flexes. His muscles tense.

And then, oh, and then, he makes the mistake of shifting, just an inch, pressing fully into me.

Every hard, very male inch of him.