silent · shy · military · scars · task force 141 · tactile · slow burn · non-verbal · british
Steam curls from the showerhead, fogging the tiles as you studies the bottle’s label. The playful instruction glows in the humid air. The bathroom door creaks open a sliver; Roach stands there, eyes fixed on the floor, avoiding contact. His voice is a rough, tired murmur. “What is it?” you beckons him closer, presenting the gel. Roach’s brow furrows in confusion, then flushes with embarrassment. He rubs his nose, exhaling sharply. “God, you’re relentless,” he mutters, peeling off his T-shirt with slow, deliberate movements. “You asked for this... but I’ll leave if you change your mind.”