His ass, his ass, was criminally sculpted. Like, God took an extra hour when molding him and whispered "this one's gonna be trouble." Tight. Firm. Just the right curve. The kind of ass that belonged in magazines and sin-heavy daydreams.
And don't even get me started on the rest of him.
His body, lean and cut with a soldier's precision, was glowing, water sliding down every chiseled back muscle like he was some forbidden Roman statue brought to life. Not just because his ass looked like it was carved by divine hands on their day off. No. That was already unfair. But the tattoos?
Yeah, those made my brain stop functioning for a hot second.
His back was basically a billboard for "DO NOT ENGAGE WITH THIS MAN" in permanent ink. A pair of huge black wings stretched across his shoulder blades, dark and sharp and dramatic as hell, like he moonlighted as the broodiest fallen angel in existence. And right down his spine, there were these… lines? Symbols? Scribbles that looked like something out of a badass video game character creator menu.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't delicate. It was bold and chaotic and screamed something with blood in it.
And somehow, it made him hotter. Like, way hotter.
No Kina! You have a man! I cursed myself underneath my breath.
I blinked, trying to stop staring. My eyeballs didn't listen.
He looked dangerous. Cursed. Beautiful.
I gulped.
Then made the mistake of looking up.
Right as he said, "You done gawking?"
I squealed, snatching toilet paper with record-breaking speed, wiping, flushing, and washing my hands like a woman possessed.
"Wh-Why are you even—how do you even—how are you going to bathe with your wound?!" I blurted, hoping the sheer volume of my voice would drown out the horror of what I just witnessed.
He turned slowly.
Still holding a T-shirt over his, um, sword of sin. No it was probably tiny.
My gaze dropped. It wasn't my fault.
I SAW THINGS.
His abs were right there, sharp, tight, wet—with a teasing snail trail leading right to danger. I caught a glimpse of the little patch of hair peeking out and I panicked.
"What, you like what you see?" he drawled, that damn smirk back in full power as he tilted his head and let his eyes trail over me with infuriating ease.
I made a sound like a dying animal.
"AHH! NO! I mean—I—shut up!" I spun on my heel so fast I practically slipped and bolted out the door like the apartment was on fire.
Then I stopped just outside, whirling around with a finger pointed at the door. "But seriously! How are you gonna wash yourself with that wound?! You'll get it infected!"
A pause.
Then his low voice replied, smug as ever.
"Well, since someone refused to help me…" A beat. "It's none of your business."
Then—slam.
I stood there in the hallway, dripping with shame, humiliation, and the unshakable image of the most annoying man I've ever seen casually standing naked in my tiny bathroom like it was his apartment.
I was going to explode.
Explode and die and come back as a floor tile just to avoid facing him again.
I stood in the hallway, heart still pounding, hands on my knees like I'd just finished sprinting a marathon uphill, backward, barefoot.
"I'm fine," I muttered to no one. "Totally. Fine."
I wasn't.
I was combusting. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually.
Like, what was that?! WHAT WAS THAT?!
Tattooed, naked Adonis in my bathroom with a body that looked like it was made to commit crimes against my sanity, that's what that was. And the worst part? He knew it. He knew exactly what he was doing when he smirked at me and stood there dripping like a damn Calvin Klein model dipped in sin.
I pressed my forehead against the wall. Cool. Calm. Be a grown adult. He's just a man. A rude, chaotic, illegal, probably lethal man with a back sculpted by the gods and an ass that could bring world peace if studied properly.
"UGHHHHHHHH!" I groaned and slid down to sit dramatically on the floor like the pathetic creature I was becoming.
I needed to do something. Anything. I grabbed my phone. Scrolled. Opened the fridge. Closed the fridge. Paced. Kicked a slipper across the room. Tried to sip water. Spilled it.
Every movement I made just reminded me he's still in there. Naked. Wet. Probably scrubbing himself in the tiny bathtub while biting back pain and still looking hot doing it because of course he'd suffer beautifully too. Stupid dramatic bastard.
And then, my brain betrayed me. Again.
Why does he have tattoos?
What do they mean?
Does the serpent on his arm wrap around to his chest?
How many more are there?
Was that a scar above his hip?
Why was I looking that low?!
I covered my face with both hands and screamed silently into the void. "I'm such a perv."
I rolled onto the floor, arms flopped out like a starfish. I needed therapy. A church. An exorcism.
"I can't even use that bathroom anymore," I whispered to the ceiling. "I've seen too much. That tub is haunted now. Defiled."
I stood up again like I had purpose. Walked to the kitchen. Wiped a counter. Then stopped mid-wipe because the stupidest memory flashed back.
That little tuft of hair peeking out beneath the...
"NO!" I screamed to myself, slamming the sponge down.
I was gonna cry. Or explode. Or both. I needed to bleach my brain.
And then I heard it.
Okay. It was fine. I was fine. I just needed to survive the next few minutes, hours, maybe days until my memory reset and deleted everything from the past half hour... including the ass, the tattoos, and the ungodly snail trail. I just had to not think about it.
Not. Think. About. It.
THUD.
I jumped so hard I nearly slipped on the stupid slipper I'd kicked earlier. My head snapped toward the bathroom.
That didn't sound good.
"Kieran?" I called, heart suddenly in my throat.
No answer. Just a low, pained grunt.
Oh my god. Did he collapse?
"Kieran!" I called again, louder this time. Still nothing but another groan—frustrated, winded, too quiet for my liking.