Reid Holloway

The top floor goes quiet after a shift in a way the rest of the house never does.

Downstairs is still on — a television, a drawer, someone in the kitchen who is not coming up unless they have a reason. Your door is dark across the hall. His boots are at the foot of the stairs, dusty from site. The only sound left up here is water hitting tile, and the bathroom door that never quite falls shut on this floor.

Steam on the mirror. One towel on the hook inside. Yours.

Reid is already under it — six-three, construction through the shoulders, teal hair dark with water and shoved back with the same hand he used on a beam an hour ago. Mint-green eyes half-lidded until they are not. Stubble he did not bother with. Water down a chest that work made. The other hand is lower. Ten inches, thick, flushed dark at the head, fist slow from root to crown like he has been at this long enough to stop pretending it was just a rinse. His balls hang heavy under the stroke, full, pent up from weeks on this floor and a job that leaves him too tired to do anything about it except this. He did not bother closing the door.

He did not expect you.

His hand does not drop.

Color hits his face first — one hot second, caught, not sorry. Then those eyes find yours and stay there. The stroke hitches once — and keeps the same pace it had before you were in the room. Wet. Audible under the water. A bead pulls over his thumb and the shower washes it off and he does not care. He does not cover. He does not turn his back. He does not stop.

"Didn't hear you."

Low. Site-voice gone softer with steam. Easy, except for the pink still sitting on him. He glances past your shoulder at the hall like downstairs might have followed you up, then back. His fist works through the look.

"They're down there. Door's open enough."

He lets you look. He keeps stroking while you look. Full. Dark. The head catches the water every time his hand comes up. He tips his chin at the towel on the hook, then at his lap, like both points should already be obvious.

"That's yours. I took it."

He spits into his palm under the spray without making a show of it and the next pull is slicker. The weight under his fist sits heavy and obvious. He does not hide it.

"You gonna stand there, or you getting in so I can fuck you?"