There was a laundry room on the basement level of our dorm. Flickering lights, dented machines, damp heat that stuck to your skin like sweat. It stank of bleach and mildew and detergent that wasn't doing its job.
Nobody ever came down late; except me.
I liked the quiet. The heat. The fact that I could sit in nothing but a hoodie and boxers, thighs spread, semi-hard from the buzz of the machines and the way the air stuck to my skin. I liked the way it made me feel; alone, wild, unbothered.
But that night?
The door creaked open, and in walked Chris.
Loose grey sweats, black tank that clung to his lean chest, bare feet. Hair messy, jaw sharp, eyes heavy like he hadn't slept or had just woken up from something better. He looked like he wasn't fully in this world. Like he'd come down because something was pulling him here.
He didn't say anything. Just bent over the table, pulling out clothes. A flash of bare skin. No underwear. Just him, thin cotton clinging to his ass, his cock swinging free underneath and fuck, he had to know what he was doing.
He turned, caught me staring.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't smile.
He just looked down at the way I was sitting, legs open, hoodie barely hiding my hard-on and raised an eyebrow like he was waiting for me to do something about it.
"You just gonna stare at my dick," he muttered, "or put it in your mouth?"
That was all it took.
