The steam in the bathroom was so thick it felt like a physical weight, a humid shroud that clung to the slate walls and the trembling, slick skin of the two men. The sudden silence after the shower was cut off was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic drip-drip-drop of water falling from the gold-plated showerhead onto the floor.
Frank stood tall, his chest heaving, his eyes already hardening back into the flinty, unreadable stones of the university professor. He reached for a plush, charcoal-grey towel, wiping the sweat and Henry's presence off his skin with a clinical, aggressive efficiency. He didn't look at the boy collapsed against the marble tub. He looked through him, already mentally filing this lapse in judgment into a dark drawer of his mind.
Henry, however, wasn't finished. The adrenaline from the risk and the visceral aftershocks of the encounter were singing in his veins. He stood up on shaky legs, his insides throbbing with a dull, possessive ache. He dressed slowly, deliberately, pulling his damp hoodie over his flushed skin, feeling the heavy weight of the hickey on his neck.
As he reached for his tool bag, a flash of pure, reckless mischief lit up his eyes. He looked at Frank—who was currently trying to button a dry shirt with fingers that were still minutely trembling—and then he looked at the heavy brass bathroom door.
"Hey!" Henry suddenly bellowed, his voice cracking through the quiet of the penthouse like a gunshot. "Whoa! Watch out!"
Frank froze, his eyes widening in a split second of pure terror. "What the hell are you—"
Henry didn't let him finish. He grabbed a handheld shower attachment and slammed it against the marble wall to create a loud, metallic clatter, then stomped his boots in the puddles on the floor to make a heavy splashing sound.
"Dammit!" Henry shouted toward the door, loud enough for Elena to hear in the living room. "The valve just blew! Mr. Miller, look out, it's everywhere! It's erupting!"
He turned the main shower back on for three seconds, letting the roar return in a violent burst before killing it again with a dramatic, heavy grunt. He splashed a handful of water onto the front of Frank's fresh shirt and soaked his own hair for good measure.
"There!" Henry panted, his voice high and frantic, playing the part of the flustered workman to perfection. "I got it! I got the bypass engaged! Sorry about that, sir, it just... it just gave way. We're both drenched, but I think the rattle is gone for good."
The bathroom door creaked open. Elena stood there, her face a mask of concern, her eyes darting between the steaming, wet bathroom and the two soaked men.
"Frank? Is everything okay? I heard a crash!"
Frank stood there, dripping, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle was stroking in his cheek. He looked like he wanted to wrap his hands around Henry's throat, but with Elena's worried gaze on him, he had to perform. He forced his shoulders to relax, though his eyes remained lethal.
"It's fine, Elena," Frank rasped, his voice tight. "The... the plumber was right. The pressure was higher than the old pipes could handle. It erupted when he tried to tighten the seal. It's fixed now."
Henry stepped forward, wiping sweat from his brow with a grimy glove. He hoisted his tool bag onto his shoulder and walked toward the door, passing inches from Frank. As he did, he leaned in just enough for Frank to feel the heat radiating off him. He looked Frank dead in the eye and delivered a slow, deliberate wink.
"All set, Mr. Miller," Henry chirped, his voice dripping with hidden meaning. "The pipes are clear. It was a tight fit, but I think we reached the root of the problem. If you have any more... urges for maintenance, you know where to find me."
He turned to Elena with a polite, boyish nod. "Have a good night, ma'am. Sorry about the mess."
Henry walked out of the penthouse, the heavy front door clicking shut behind him. He practically floated down the hallway.
Inside the apartment, the silence returned, but it was a different kind of quiet. It was the heavy, domestic silence of a life built on secrets.
Frank stood in the center of the bathroom, water dripping from his hair onto the slate floor. He felt violated by the very pleasure he had just taken.
"Oh, Frank, look at you," Elena sighed, stepping into the room. She didn't see the dark obsession in his eyes; she only saw her hardworking partner who had been accidently soaked by a faulty pipe. "You're shivering. Come here, let's get you out of those wet clothes before you catch a chill."
She led him into the master bedroom, her touch gentle and familiar—a stark contrast to the bruising, desperate grip of the boy who had just left.
She began to unbutton his damp shirt, her fingers moving with the ease of years of partnership. Frank stood like a statue, his mind still trapped in the steam, still feeling the way Henry had looked at him with such defiant, hungry eyes.
"That boy seemed a bit... strange, didn't he?" Elena murmured as she pulled the wet fabric from his shoulders. "A bit young to be a master plumber. But I suppose as long as the shower works, I shouldn't complain. I've been dreaming of a hot soak since I left London."
She tossed the wet shirt into the hamper and reached for a soft, cashmere robe, wrapping it around Frank's powerful frame. She pulled the lapels together, her hazel eyes searching his face. "You seem so distant tonight, darling. Is work that stressful?"
"It's just the start of the semester," Frank said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "New students. A lot of administrative friction. It'll settle down."
Elena smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. She led him over to the oversized leather armchair by the window and sat on the ottoman at his feet, taking his hand in hers.
"Well, I have just the thing to distract you," she said, her voice bright. "The flight was absolutely endless, Frank. You wouldn't believe the drama in first class. There was a woman two rows up who insisted her toy poodle needed its own meal service... and then the turbulence over the Atlantic was so bad I thought the wings were going to buckle."
She went on, her voice a soothing, domestic hum as she recounted the trivialities of her trip—the meetings in London, the shopping on Bond Street, the weather in the countryside. To any outsider, they were the picture of a perfect, high-powered couple. But Frank wasn't listening. He was staring at his own reflection in the window, seeing the memory of the boy in the hoodie reflected back at him.
"And my parents," Elena continued, her tone shifting slightly, becoming more expectant. "I saw them for dinner the night before I flew out. They're doing well, though Dad is complaining about his golf swing again."
She squeezed Frank's hand, pulling him back to the present. "They're coming into the city this weekend. They wanted to see us—specifically you, Frank. They want to hear about your latest publication. Mom was asking if we could do a long lunch at the club this Saturday. Should I tell them you'll be available? I know you're busy with the new term, but it would mean so much to them."
Frank looked down at her—at this beautiful, stable woman who represented everything he had worked so hard to achieve. Reputation. Status. A future that didn't involve dark clubs or critics.
The weight of his double life pressed down on his chest, a suffocating pressure. He looked at Elena's hopeful face and felt a surge of self-loathing. He was a man of the law, a man of ethics, and he was currently drowning in a sea of his own making.
"Frank?" she prodded gently. "Saturday?"
Frank forced his voice to be steady.
"Yes," Frank said, his voice a low, hollow echo. "Tell them I'll be there. I'll make the time, Elena. I always do."
Elena beamed, leaning forward to hug him, her head resting on his chest.