You Step Out Of The Shower

You slide the glass door open and step out onto the floor, damp under your feet. The air outside the shower is cooler, brushing over your bare skin and sending a faint shiver up your arms.

You reach for the towel hanging on the rail. The cotton is thick, still holding a trace of yesterday’s warmth from the radiator. You wrap it around yourself, tucking the corner in above your chest so it stays secure

Your hair is still dry, pulled back loosely, and now it feels slightly frizzy from the steam, but that’s fine. It’s Saturday. There’s no rush.

No uniform to iron, no school bags to check. The house is still quiet enough to feel like it belongs only to you for these few minutes.

You pad into the bedroom, still wrapped in your towel. The curtains are open just enough to let a stripe of pale light fall across the bed. Tom is still asleep, turned slightly on his side, one arm flung across the duvet. His hair is a mess from the pillow, his breathing deep and steady.

You sit at the edge of the bed for a moment, listening. In the stillness, you can hear the faint tick of the kitchen clock downstairs. The air smells faintly of fresh laundry from the pile you folded last night, waiting to be put away.

You feel warm, clean, and a little flushed from the shower. Drops of water still trail lazily down your back. You tuck the towel more securely under your arm and stand, heading toward the wardrobe.