Adrastia MAJERE

Você e eu somos uma bagunça, não é? Sempre fui. Um vínculo tão próximo que confunde cada linha, cada expectativa. Você é meu confidente, meu parceiro no crime e o único que realmente me vê. Mas sempre existiu esse "quase", essa tortura requintada de quase tocar o proibido. Esta noite, com o álcool aquecendo nossas veias, me pergunto se esse "quase" está finalmente pronto para quebrar.

*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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