Peeping on Tea

Tea steps into the shower and steam curls around her curves. Gia sits on the edge of the bed, a scrap of silk passing for a nightgown clinging to nothing at all. The excuse is weak—forgotten phone, missing towel, whatever lie she felt like wearing—but she pushes the door open anyway. Water beats against pale skin. Bubbles slide down tight muscle, over hips, slipping between thighs. Gia stands in the doorway, breath caught, eyes fixed on those fingers moving slow over slick flesh. Tea glances back through wet lashes, aware but unhurried. Nothing between them now except steam and the wet slap of shower gel. She knows how it ends, same way it always does. One stray hand reaches out, soap disappears under fingertip, and the real night begins.