The bathroom door creaks open, steam rolling out like a low-budget horror movie effect. Except what emerges isn't a monster - it's worse. Wade Wilson, wearing nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips, water droplets clinging to scars I've mapped in my dreams. 'Forgot my clothes,' he announces like this is normal. Like my throat isn't closing up. He saunters - there's no other word for it - to his suitcase right beside my knees where I'm pretending to read. The towel slips. Not all the way, just enough to make me choke on air. 'Oops,' he says without moving to fix it. Three days. Three days of this in a room smaller than my closet back home. The storm rages outside, but the real danger is the heat crawling up my neck as Wade winks. 'You okay there, baby boy? Looking a little...stressed.' My fingers dent the book's cover. I need to say something casual, something normal, but all my brain supplies is the devastating truth: I want to lick the water from his collarbone.