Noah's POV
The click of the bathroom door locking behind me is quiet.
A soft click behind me and nothing more.
Kieran doesn't hear it over the hiss of the water spraying out of the shower, or maybe he does and just doesn't care—because he's too busy panting against the tiles, one hand braced high on the shower wall, the other wrapped around his cock, stroking it slowly.
Steam swirls around him, clinging to his skin like a second layer. The bathroom's modest—single sink, old toilet, tub with a half-cracked ceramic lip. It's practical, but unremarkable. Yet somehow, right now, it feels like a stage. Kieran is in the center of it.
And I'm the only audience.
"Starting without me?" I murmur.
His head turns. The water slicks back his hair, and his lips part—but he doesn't stop. His hand keeps moving in slow, deliberate strokes.
"You were taking too long," he says, voice low and hoarse with need.
