Page 23 of Canned & Coated

It’s obvious we’re the only two people in here. Places like this have a certain kind of emptiness, a hollowness that makes every drip and echo feel amplified.

That should make this easier, right? I can talk to him through the curtain. It shouldn’t feel different. We’ve shared locker rooms since we were kids, seen each other half-dressed without a second thought.

But standing here now, staring down that thin strip of plastic, it feels like a line I’m not entirely sure I can cross without something changing.

This is normal. Totally normal.

I can apologize and leave. Pretend my palms aren’t slick with sweat that has nothing to do with the humidity.

Problem is… the air feels heavier than that. It sits low in my gut, prickling hot across my skin even as every rational part of me says leave.

I draw in a breath and move toward the far end of the room, footsteps echoing against damp tile. I pick a sink across from his stall with more intention than I want to admit.

Far enough that he won’t feel cornered. Close enough that he’ll know I’m here.

His curtain’s cracked open an inch.

I drag my eyes down to the rust-stained basin instead, to the crusted smear of toothpaste someone left behind. My fingers curl around the cold porcelain, knuckles whitening.

My pulse pounds in my throat, and heat crawls up my neck despite the clammy air.

Not sure what to do with myself, standing here like an idiot while he’s there on the other side of that thin barrier. I panic and clear my throat.

The sound cracks through the room, sharp against the tile.

What I get back isn’t a response so much as a soft, breathy whimper.

I freeze, fingertips pressed to the cool edge of the sink, every muscle in my body going still.

The whimper is accompanied by the wet slap of skin on skin, faint at first, then steadier. The kind of rhythm that builds from habit and need, like waves against a shore, growing more insistent. That gets louder when it’s echoed off the tile walls, bouncing back at me from every direction.

Another moan. This one a deeper, guttural sound that vibrates through the stall, not meant for anyone but himself.

The air in the bathhouse shifts and thickens until I’m choking on it, each breath drawing heat and steam and want into my lungs.

I stare down at the rust-stained porcelain, tracing the spiderweb cracks like they might anchor me to something solid.

My lungs feel paper-thin, each breath shallow and scraping.

Dear god, what did I walk into?

I need to leave.

My feet don’t agree. They’ve turned to cinder blocks, rooted to the tile, ignoring every panicked command my brain throws at them.

I clear my throat again. It’s my one defining trait in a crisis. That and the very inconvenient awareness of my own body right now.

Fantastic. Great work, everyone.

When I finally look up, he’s there.

Tanner, watching me through the narrow gap in the curtain.

Our eyes lock.

His pupils are blown wide, the hazel barely visible, and there’s something in his expression that barrels into me. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, curls damp and clinging to his forehead.

In that moment, every thought I had about leaving evaporates.