Somebody Saw Me (2/6)

The water hit my back, hot and relentless, but my body was cold.

My fingers clenched the phone tighter than I realized. I could still feel the residual heat from his touch. That moment--him stepping into the stall, silent, soaked, with that intense look in his eyes--it played over and over in my mind like a stuck loop.

What the fuck just happened?

I turned the knob off with one shaky hand and stood there a moment, dripping, breathing. My skin tingled with leftover adrenaline. That look on his face when I showed him the message I'd sent--the screenshots. The proof. That there was no way out.

I could still feel it.

The panic. The guilt.

But also something else.

Desire.

I wore my jammers once again, opened the stall door, and stepped out. The tile beneath my feet was slick, cool, grounding.

He was waiting.

He sat on the bench by the lockers. Head down, arms resting on his knees. His hair dripped slowly onto the floor. His back rose and fell like he was holding himself together one breath at a time.

His eyes lifted--same look as before. Wide. Caught. Wrecked.

I didn't say anything. I walked past him, toward my locker. My hands were shaking a little, still holding the phone.

I could feel his presence just behind me--close enough to hear the wet squelch of his bare feet, to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

I reached my locker, opened it with a trembling hand, and set the phone inside. I shut the door hard. The metal bang echoed through the empty space.

Then I turned to face him.

"You so much as look at me wrong, I scream. Understand?"

His mouth parted, startled--but he nodded quickly. "I won't."

We just stood there. Our bodies still damp. Tension hanging between us like static.

"Let's go," I said.

He blinked. "Go...?"

"Back to the pool."

A flicker of confusion crossed his face, but he didn't argue. Just followed. We didn't talk as we walked past the empty swim lanes. The hum of the overhead lights, the faint echo of our wet footsteps--everything was louder than our silence.

We sat on the edge, feet dipped into the cold water. Our legs didn't touch. But they were close.

I finally spoke.

"Why?"

He was quiet for a long time. "I don't know."

I looked at him. His shoulders were hunched, hands hanging between his knees.

"I'm fucked up," he added, almost under his breath.

"Clearly."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't go there planning to... you know. I don't even know when it started. It's like--I get in my head too much. I get lonely. I want... I don't know. Control? Something real?"

I frowned. "So what's the deal then? You're straight? Got a girlfriend but jerk off to strangers in the shower?"

"What?" He blinked. "That's not a girlfriend. That's my sister." He hesitated, then added. "The one in the photos."

I paused. "Oh."

He shifted closer. "I'm still in the closet."

That made me swallow. Hard.

"I didn't think you even saw me. But I saw you. For months." He laughed, soft and bitter. "Guess I saw too much."

I tried not to react, but I felt something ripple through me. Something too close to hope.

"I noticed," I muttered.

He smiled. A sad, guilty little thing. "You're my type."

I didn't say anything. Just stared at the water.

"Scrawny. Pretty. Guys like you..." He trailed off.

"Guys who make me nervous when they smile." He bit the inside of his cheek.

"Guys I'd never have the guts to talk to. So I didn't. I just... watched."

My throat tightened. I wasn't sure if I wanted to lean in or run.

"I'm not good at talking to people," he said. "Especially not guys I want."

"You followed me."

He swallowed. "Yeah."

"Into the fucking showers."

"I didn't plan it--"

"But you did it."

A beat.

"...Yes. I did."

The silence was thick, but not heavy. We sat there, feet swaying in the pool like kids who'd done something wrong.

I exhaled, chest tight. "Fuck."

"I'm sorry," he said again, voice almost a whisper.

I didn't respond. I didn't forgive him. Not yet.

I stood.

"Let's swim."

We dove in. The water swallowed us in blue silence.

We raced to the other end.

He beat me there, obviously. I was still catching my breath when I reached the wall. He turned, grinning, hair slicked back, drops of water clinging to his chest hair like little beads.

"You breathe late," he murmured, too close. "Makes you slower."

I clung to the edge, panting, trying not to look directly at his body--trying, and failing. "Thanks, coach."

He laughed quietly and floated beside me. The water between us was warm from our movement. His leg brushed mine under the surface. Once. Then again--definitely not accidental.

I didn't move away.

"Want a tip?" he asked, barely above the ripple of water.

I just nodded.

He moved closer, gently placing his hand on my shoulder. It burned into my skin even through the water. "Breathe earlier. Pull longer. Keep your hips flat. You're using too much arm and not enough body."

I nodded again, but I wasn't hearing much anymore. My brain was just repeating: He touched me.

We floated there for a while. Barely talking. Just existing in that little electric space between strangers and something else.

His fingers drifted just close enough to graze mine beneath the water.

I didn't pull away.

"I know I don't deserve another chance," he said, voice just loud enough to carry over the water. "Not after what I've done."

"You don't," I said, evenly.

He agreed like he expected it.

"But you're here," I added. "So talk."

He didn't.

He floated there in silence, water lapping gently against his chest. His eyes weren't on mine anymore. They were on the tile edge. Or the far wall. Anywhere else.

I could tell he wasn't working up to an apology--at least, not yet. He was thinking about something else. Holding something back.

My fingers drifted over the surface beside me. The water was cool now. Calmer than I felt.

Then he said, almost to himself, "You didn't report me."

I didn't respond.

His gaze flicked back to me. Still cautious. Still wrecked.

"If it was just anger--if you hated me--you would've handed in the phone. I'd be gone."

He wasn't wrong.

He hesitated, like the next line tasted risky in his mouth.

"So you gave me a chance."

The words dropped soft, but direct.

That hit something deep.

I didn't correct him.

I told myself I was here for answers. For accountability. To make him squirm.

But part of me--something smaller and darker--wanted to know what it felt like to be wanted. Even like this.

That scared me more than the camera ever did.

He exhaled, treading a little closer--careful, like he was testing for landmines.

"I didn't start with the camera thing. I used to just... look. Glance. Like any guy. Locker room, pool, whatever."

"Everyone peeks," I said. "No one's innocent."

I leaned in. "But you filmed us. That's not looking. That's an invasion of privacy."

He winced. "Yeah."

A pause.

"I thought it was just watching," he admitted. "But it wasn't. It was knowing I had something they didn't know I took."

I floated back half a stroke, just to feel the water between us again.

"So what," I said. "You collect people? You treat strangers like souvenirs?"

"No. It wasn't like that."

"It was exactly like that."

He looked down, ashamed.

"You filmed me while I was showering," I snapped. "And not just me. I saw the others."

I stared him down. "You planned it. You set it up. You wanted to catch me like that. Naked. Vulnerable."

His jaw tensed. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I did."

No excuses. Just that.

It made it worse. And somehow, better.

"You don't even know me," I said.

His voice came quieter this time. "I don't. But I wanted to."

I didn't speak. Just floated there, watching him tread water like it took effort to stay afloat now.

"I've done shitty things," he said. "And I'll probably hate myself for a long time because of it. But when I saw you that day--before the stall, before the phone--I don't know. Something hit different."

"This isn't some locker room romance," I snapped.

"I know," he said.

"Then stop pretending it is."

He paused. Looked me dead in the eye.

"I'm not," he said. "I just... saw someone I liked. And instead of doing the right thing, I ruined it before it could even start."

He looked at me for a long time.

"You scare the shit out of me," he added.

That made me freeze. "Why?"

"Because you saw the worst part of me," he said. "And I still want you to see more."

His voice didn't shake, but it was quiet. Honest.

"I'm not gonna chase you. I'm not gonna beg. I've said what I did. I'm owning it. But if you want to know the rest of me--the part that didn't record anything, the part that just wanted to sit next to you in the sauna or maybe say hi after a swim--I'm still here."

I didn't know what to say to that.

He let the silence stretch, then added, "I won't touch you unless you ask. I won't even come near you unless you tell me to."

He meant it. I could see it in his eyes.

He wasn't pushing.

He was waiting.

We stayed there, floating, not touching.

The air between us had weight. Not tension--permission. Like the moment after someone leans in but before the kiss. Breathless. Borderless.

He hadn't moved closer.

He really meant it.

No pressure.

No chase.

Just want. Bare and stupid and real.

I could've left. I should've left.

Instead, I swam toward him.

Not fast. Just one easy stroke. Quiet.

His breath hitched when I got close--but he didn't move.

I raised a hand. My fingers stopped just short of his chest.

He nodded. Once. Barely.

I pressed my palm to him. Fingers brushing over his pecs, the roughness of his chest hair against the smooth heat of his skin. It sent a jolt through me, the solid curve of him beneath my hand, the way his breath rushed out against my skin with each exhale, making my pulse spike.

He didn't flinch.

Didn't grin.

He just looked at me like I was gravity.

I slid closer. Our legs brushed. His hand lifted, hovering near my side, waiting.

I nodded.

His touch found my waist--light. Careful. Like I'd vanish if he gripped too hard.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

I nodded again.

He leaned in. Stopped an inch away from my lips. Waited.

I thought of the phone again. I thought of what he did. My heart told me to run. But my body didn't.

And I kissed him.

Not fast. Not hungry. Just a press of mouths. A breath shared.

His hand tightened slightly on my waist. I let my fingers trace his shoulder, down to his upper arm. He was all tension and heat and restraint.

I pulled back, eyes open.

He looked stunned. Wrecked in the quietest way.

"I've never kissed a guy before," I said.

He smiled. Gently. "You're good at it."

I looked down. "You said you wouldn't touch me unless I told you to."

"You told me to."

"Not with words."

He nodded. "You didn't need them."

We floated there, bodies pressed together in the water. Everything soft. Slow.

My heart was racing.

"Can I kiss you again?" he asked.

That did something to me.

I nodded.

And he did.

This time, deeper. Still soft. Still careful. But like he was trying to remember the shape of my mouth forever.

When we broke apart, I rubbed my face against his chest, breath catching. My forehead pressed into the hollow beneath his collarbone, and for a moment, I wanted to lick the smoothness of his skin, taste the heat of him. His arm slid around my back, and the temptation lingered, thick and heavy in the air between us.

"I don't want anyone to see," I whispered.

"Then let's go somewhere no one will."

I looked up.

His eyes held mine. Open. Honest.

"Come with me," He said.

I didn't ask where.

I just followed.