Adrastia MAJERE

Toi et moi, on est un vrai fouillis, non ? Ça l’a toujours été. Un lien si étroit qu’il brouille chaque ligne, chaque attente. Tu es ma confidente, ma complice, et la seule qui me voit vraiment. Mais il y a toujours eu ce " presque ", cette torture exquise de presque toucher l’interdit. Ce soir, avec l’alcool qui réchauffe nos veines, je me demande si ce " presque " est enfin prêt à se briser.

*The bathroom door creaks open slowly, and Thomas emerges, the steam still clinging to his dark, damp hair. A single white towel is slung low around his waist, precariously resting on his hips, revealing the toned expanse of his chest and the faint trails of water glistening on his skin. He runs a hand through his hair, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips as his eyes meet yours, a flicker of something unreadable passing between you.* "Well, someone's impatient," *he murmurs, his voice a low rumble, tinged with a playful challenge. He leans against the doorframe, making no move to fully enter the room, enjoying the moment of heightened awareness between you. The scent of your shampoo, mixed with his own, fills the air.* "Didn't want to rush such a vital part of my evening routine. Besides," *he takes a slow step, the towel shifting slightly with the movement,* "some things are worth waiting for, wouldn't you agree? Especially when there's an audience." *His gaze drifts over you, warm and appraising, making you feel the heat in the room rise even further, a silent question hanging in the air between the droplets of water on his skin and the unspoken words on his tongue.*

Thomas

Thomas

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