Page 5

And the long hair he always keeps in a bun?

And the reading glasses he keeps on a chain hanging around his neck like some librarian grandpa?

“This isn’t a fucking museum,” he snaps, shouldering me as he walks past. “Stop fucking staring.”

“Are you calling yourself a work of art?” I ask, unable to help my grin.

His eyes widen a fraction, and I can see his jaw working like he’s deciding whether or not he wants to tell me off. I know the look well. It’s the expression he has every time he walks into the office to find out I’ve done something categorically stupid to one of the computers.

Which, in his defense, is often. I think I probably have some kind of curse.

“Can you please fuck off?” he finally mutters, walking up to the sinks.

I ignore him and instead pull my shirt off. I can feel him staring at me through the mirror. He’s trying to look like he isn’t staring, and that just makes it worse. And the way he’s watching me feels like a physical touch. Heat begins to creep from my sternum, up my neck, and into my cheeks.

I turn away before he can see the blush because I don’t want him to feel bad. I know he likes men. The guys have tried to set him up a time or two, but Lex and I have a secret bet that the reason he keeps turning everyone down is because he’s got a boyfriend.

Or a husband.

Or a…something.

Shimmying out of my pants, I toss them in the direction of my locker, then walk to the stalls before dropping my boxers and stepping inside. The water comes out cold as fucking ice, but it’s not something I mind. I do a monthly cold plunge at the gym, so this is nothing.

Pressing my hand to the wall, I tune my ear out toward the locker room, and I hear Rune shuffling around and muttering to himself. He does that a lot too: talking to himself. I don’t even think he’s aware he’s doing it, and it’s kind of endearing.

It’s also worrying because it tells me the man is under a mountain of stress, and I know I don’t make things easier on him. Well, apart from destroying computer equipment and the occasional fuckup where I misplace a file.

But he hates my guts no matter what I do, and I let him because sometimes I think he just needs that outlet.

And hell, I can take it.

He doesn’t pick on the other guys. He’s always kind to Ozzie, and he’s never made North feel like shit, and that’s all that matters to me. Sometimes I feel like I’m the shock absorber for the entire station, and while it does get a little tiring some days, knowing the people I love won’t be hurt is enough to make the weight bearable.

With a breath, I finish washing my hair, then pour on my conditioner to let it set in my curls while I scrub my body. The locker room is quiet now, and I’m pretty sure that Rune’s made his way elsewhere.

It means I’m alone, and if I’m quick about it, I can rub one out before anyone comes to bother me.

It doesn’t take much to get me hard these days. My dry spell has been going on for so long that I’m ready to shoot off at the slightest friction. A soapy hand and a firm grip, and I’m good to go.

I press my forehead to the cool tiles, hold my breath, and then begin to stroke. I’ve always been a fairly easy guy. I don’t have a type, specifically. I like someone who makes me laugh and makes my fingers and toes tingle—and not in an oh shit, I’m having a stroke kind of way.

I’ve never cared about body type or hair color or any of that other shit guys tend to get hung up on.

Just someone…nice. Someone who makes me feel seen and heard. Someone who gets me.

Someone with dark eyes and messy hair in a bun who says my name in a rough growl that⁠—

“Oh fuck, Rune.” I’m shooting off before I’m really aware of what happened, and it takes me a moment as I watch my come swirl down the drain with the soap bubbles to fully understand what I just did.

And okay, it’s not the first time I’ve gotten off to a guy. There are plenty who are objectively good-looking, and I don’t always fixate on the woman when I watch porn. I like it as a whole. As a scene. Watching both people connect and get off.

But this wasn’t some rando in my head. It wasn’t some internet stranger’s face behind my closed eyelids. It wasn’t some porn star’s voice I heard when I was shooting off. And it wasn’t a stage name I groaned when my orgasm hit.

This…might be something I should think about later.

Swallowing heavily, I shove my head under the spray and rinse out my conditioner before turning the water off. I feel a little colder than usual. It didn’t mean anything, right? It was just a fluke.

I mean, he was just here and stuck in my head. It doesn’t matter if he’s objectively gorgeous. I don’t want him to touch my dick.