Somebody Saw Me (5/6)

The silence felt different now.

Not charged. Not desperate.

Just... still.

We lay tangled on the mat, our bodies damp, flushed, heavy with aftermath. We hadn't spoken since we came down from it all. Just breathed. His leg over mine. My hand on his stomach. His lips occasionally brushing my hair.

It felt like floating.

But eventually, reality crept back in.

I stirred first. Just a shift of my hips. My spine ached faintly from the mat, and there was a sticky drag where our skin had dried together.

"...We should go," I whispered.

He didn't move.

"Yeah," he finally murmured, voice rough. "I know."

Still, he didn't let go right away.

But we pulled apart slowly. A reluctant separation. Like unthreading.

He sat up, rubbed his face. His body was streaked with sweat and smudged from the mat--cum still clinging to his hip and thigh. His chest hair was matted, neck flushed. I was probably worse.

"We can't just walk out like this," I muttered.

He looked over. Nodded.

"Back to the showers," he said.

We grabbed our towels. Slipped out quietly.

No one saw us.

The locker room was mostly empty. Just the low buzz of ventilation and the distant click of lockers. We passed two swimmers toweling off near the entrance, but they didn't notice us.

We turned into the back corridor.

And stepped into the showers.

The far stall. Same as before. Ours now.

He turned on the water, let the steam build, then stepped under the spray, head tilted back. The rivulets ran over his body, catching in his chest hair, sliding down his stomach. I stood just inside the stall, still watching him.

He glanced back at me.

"You coming in?"

I stepped in. Closed the door.

My towel dropped to the floor. His had never made it on.

The heat of the water hit my skin and I inhaled sharply. It felt good. Cleansing. But it didn't touch the tension in my chest.

I looked at him again.

His back. His shoulders. The curve of his ass. The way the water traced down every ridge of his body.

I wanted him again.

But not to fuck. Not to get off.

I just... wanted to hold him. Taste him.

Remember.

"Hey," I said, voice quiet.

He turned.

"Can I touch you again?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

He just nodded once.

And turned to face me fully.

I stepped forward. Slowly. The water slicked between us as I pressed my body to his, my hands flattening against his stomach.

He let me.

I kissed his chest. Open-mouthed, wet, letting the spray soak us both. I licked across one nipple, sucked it into my mouth, let it drag free with a soft pop.

His fingers slid into my hair.

"Again," he murmured.

So I did.

I kissed lower, down his chest, along the trail of hair that led to his groin. I dropped to my knees, water running down my back.

His cock was soft now. Hanging heavy. Warm from the shower, still streaked faintly with sweat and our earlier mess.

I kissed it.

Then licked it, slow and gentle, running my tongue under the head.

Not to make him hard.

Just to feel him again.

He exhaled--sharp. Almost a shudder.

"You're something else," he said.

I mouthed his balls, kissed the crease of his thigh, then pressed my cheek to his stomach. His hand rested on the back of my neck.

Neither of us moved.

I stayed there. Let the water hit my back. Let him hold me.

Finally, I rose.

He kissed me again. This time softer. No teeth. No tongue. Just lips.

Then he turned back under the water, letting it wash us both clean.

I stood beside him, quiet, the warmth cascading between us. Neither of us spoke. We didn't need to.

Steam curled around our bodies, lifting the last of the sweat, the cum, the filth.

There was something almost sacred in it.

Eventually, the water began to cool.

He turned the knob off without a word, and we stepped out together. The tile was cold beneath our feet. My towel clung damply to my skin as I wrapped it around my waist. His did the same.

The locker room was quiet when we padded back through the corridor. A few lockers clanged open in the distance, but the place was mostly empty now--as if the world had made space for our silence.

We reached the benches. Sat down a few feet apart. Our bodies still carried the heat of everything we'd done, but it was fading fast, like embers cooling in the dark.

I pulled open my locker.

His phone was still sitting there. Right where I left it.

I picked it up. Turned it over in my hand.

Then held it out to him.

He didn't ask. Just took it from me without a word.

His fingers moved slowly at first, then with mechanical precision.

Gallery. Videos. Deleted.

Trash. Cleared.

He went deeper. Folders, cache, synced backups. One by one, he dug out every copy, every trace. I watched his thumb flick through thumbnails, select them, erase them. No hesitation.

It wasn't just me in there.

There had been others. Now? Nothing.

He turned the screen to show me. The gallery was empty. Then he handed it back.

I didn't say thank you. He didn't expect me to.

I set it aside and reached into my pocket for my own phone. Opened the message thread I'd sent myself -- the screenshots, the evidence, the failsafe.

I stared at it for a moment.

Then deleted it. The message vanished.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

Not like earlier. Not like the shower. Just two people sitting in the after.

He exhaled.

"We don't talk about this," he said, voice steady. "Ever."

I nodded.

"You don't tell anyone. I won't either."

Another pause.

"Promise?"

My mouth was dry. My chest felt tight.

"...Promise."

That was it.

He stood. Slowly. Pulled his clothes on piece by piece. Damp shirt. Clinging waistband. Socks. Shoes.

I dressed too. My skin was sensitive. My neck still flushed. My hands trembling just slightly.

We didn't speak again.

We walked toward the exit, side by side.

The hallway felt longer now. Colder. The buzz of overhead lights hummed above us, and the silence between us wasn't awkward. It was final.

And we were both trying not to feel it.

We reached the exit.

The bright white of the hallway beyond poured in through the open door, cool against our skin. He stepped into it, half-turned, hand still on the push bar. One foot already outside.

I watched his back. His shoulders. The place between them where my hands had been.

This was it.

"Wait," I said.

He stopped.

I swallowed. "Can I... Can I hug you? One more time?"

He didn't turn around. Just stood there for a second, like he was deciding whether it was a good idea. Whether it would make things worse.

Then--without a word--he reached behind him.

And took my hand.

His fingers curled around mine like he meant it. Then he gently tugged, pulling me away from the door, away from the exit, guiding me deeper into the building.

We walked in silence. Through one hall, then another. The lighting grew dimmer. We passed no one.

Then he turned into a stairwell, leading me up two flights. His grip never left mine.

At the top, he opened a narrow door.

No label.

Inside was a small room, probably storage once, or a disused training space. There was a window up high, letting in soft, natural light. A stack of unused mats in one corner. Empty otherwise. Still. Clean.

He stepped in. Closed the door behind us.

Neither of us spoke.

Then he looked at me. Reached for the hem of his shirt.

And pulled it off.

He stood there, bare-chested in the quiet, watching me.

Waiting.

I took mine off too.

He didn't say anything.

Just opened his arms.

I stepped into them.

His body was warm and familiar against mine. Damp shirt gone, skin to skin again. His arms came around my back. Mine circled his waist. I buried my face against his chest.

His heart was beating steadily beneath my cheek. His chest hair tickled slightly against my lips. I turned my head and pressed in deeper, breathing him in.

He smelled like soap and sweat and something underneath... something that was just him.

I didn't cry.

But something inside me ached, low and sharp.

We stood there for a while. Just holding each other.

Then he shifted slightly, guiding me down with him.

We lowered ourselves onto the mat together, knees first, then thighs, then backs. He leaned into the wall and pulled me with him, cradling me against his chest as we lay down.

His arms settled around me again. One around my shoulders. The other at my waist.

I let myself curl into him.

Pressed my face against his chest again. Rubbed it there slowly, as if I could absorb him through my skin. The warmth of him. The steadiness. The way he felt like something safe in a world that usually wasn't.

His hand ran up and down my spine in slow, absent strokes.

Neither of us talked.

Time felt blurry again.

He kissed the top of my head once.

I didn't know what this was. It wasn't love. Not exactly. But it felt like the closest I'd ever come to being safe inside someone else's arms.

I didn't want to leave.

I wanted to freeze right here. In this moment. With this man. This stranger who had filmed me... and also held me like no one else ever had.

His breath was slow. Deep. His fingers resting lightly at the base of my neck.

I tilted my head slightly, just to look up at him one more time.

His eyes were already on me.

He didn't smile. He didn't frown. Just looked.

And then, finally, he whispered, "You were the first person who ever really saw me."

"And I hated that. Until I didn't."

The words landed quietly between us.

He didn't follow them with anything else.

He didn't need to.

I nodded against his chest.

We stayed like that a little longer. Not speaking. Not moving.

Eventually, his hand slid down my back one last time.

He sat up.

I let him go.

We dressed in silence. Slowly. Shirts pulled back over bare skin. Damp curls brushed from our faces. No rush.

When he was ready, he picked up his towel and walked to the door.

This time, he didn't pause.

He opened it.

Stepped out.

And disappeared down the stairs.

I didn't follow.

I just stood there in the quiet, shirt clinging to my skin, his warmth still ghosting against my chest.

And I let him go.