She's teasing...

She let the silence stretch between us, thick with steam and the sound of water hitting tile. I could see her silhouette through the frosted glass—small, curvy, hoodie still bunched from when she’d sat on the toilet. My cock stood heavy and obvious against my stomach, water running down the length of it in steady rivulets. She didn’t look away.

Then she laughed. Low. Warm. That same husky edge that always went straight to my dick.

“Relax, warehouse warrior. I was having you on.” Her voice was light, teasing, but not cruel. “The rent thing? That’s real. I meant every word. The rest…” She shrugged, the motion making the blurred shape of her shoulders shift. “Mostly kidding. Again. Sorry for barging in like that. Really. And for the… interruption. Didn’t mean to leave you in that state.”

Another soft laugh, almost fond. “I’ll let you finish your shower in peace. Don’t want you showing up to work smelling like my body wash and bad decisions. Stream’s about to start anyway. Try not to think about me too much while you’re stacking pallets, yeah?”

She stepped back. The hoodie swayed. The bathroom door opened with a quiet click, then closed. Footsteps padded down the hall toward her room. A moment later I heard the low electric hum of her PC waking up, then the familiar bright burst of her voice greeting chat like nothing had happened.

I stayed under the spray for a long minute, heart still hammering, cock still achingly hard. The tease sat in my chest like a live wire. Having you on. She’d offered company, stood right there while I was naked and dripping and half-hard from jerking off to the thought of her, then pulled it back with a smile in her voice. And she’d apologised again, casual as anything, like busting in on me mid-shower was just another Tuesday in this shitty little terrace.

The intimacy of it—the sound of her peeing two feet away, the hoodie riding up, the way she’d lingered instead of fleeing—mixed with the financial reality she’d dropped on me in the kitchen. She was covering my rent. Taking care of me. And now she was teasing me about it, about this, like it was all part of the same game.

My hand drifted down before I could talk myself out of it.

Quick, rough strokes. No romance this time. Just need. I braced my forearm on the tile, forehead pressed to the cool surface, and came again in under a minute—shorter, sharper, almost painful. Thick pulses that left me breathing hard and empty, water washing everything away. I stayed there until my legs felt steady, then actually washed. Shampoo. Body wash. The works. By the time I turned the water off, the only evidence left was the faint throb in my balls and the way my skin felt too sensitive under the towel.

I stepped out into the steamy bathroom, wiped the mirror with my forearm, and stared at my own reflection. Twenty-seven years old, warehouse grime finally gone, cock still half-interested despite two orgasms, and my housemate had just paid my rent and then teased me about blue-balling me through a frosted glass door.

My phone sat on the sink where I’d left it. Work in less than an hour. The shift was already rostered. Graveyard plus overtime. Same soul-crushing routine that had been grinding me down for months.

Except now the rent was covered. And Veronica was in her room, probably laughing with chat, hoodie on, legs tucked under her, acting like she hadn’t just turned my entire morning into a live wire.

I could go to work. Clock in. Stack pallets until my back screamed and my brain went numb. Come home smelling like the warehouse again and pretend this morning hadn’t happened.

Or I could stay.

The choice sat in front of me, heavier than it should have been.