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I saw him every Tuesday and Thursday, like clockwork. Same corner by the bodega, same cardboard sign scrawled in faded marker: Anything helps. He’d nod, I’d nod, and sometimes we’d exchange a quick “Cold one today” or “Stay dry.” His name was Marcus. I learned that on the third week, when I handed him a coffee and he said it with a voice like gravel and velvet. I replied easily and told him my name was Lila.

Six months of nods and small talk, and then one Friday the sky cracked open. I was soaked by the time I hit the block, heels clicking, umbrella useless. Marcus was huddled under the awning, shivering in a threadbare jacket two sizes too big. Something twisted in my chest. He was always polite, like an old fashioned nice guy. “Hey,” I called, rain drumming on the metal roof. “Come with me, get out of the rain, get a hot shower and food. No strings.”

He blinked up, water dripping from his matted beard. “I don’t want to—”

“Please. I’ve got a lasagna in the freezer and a water heater that could scald a lobster. Let me.”

He hesitated, then nodded. We stopped at the corner store; I bought a loofah, disposable razor, fancy shave cream—my treat. He tried to protest, but I was already at the register.

My apartment smelled like garlic and basil the second we stepped inside. I pointed him to the bathroom, laid out fresh towels. “Take your time.”

Water hissed. I stirred sauce, heart thudding for reasons I didn’t examine. Twenty minutes later the door creaked. Marcus stepped into the kitchen light, towel knotted low on his hips, steam curling off his shoulders.

Jesus.

The beard was gone. His jaw was sharp, cheekbones carved, eyes a startling hazel under dark brows. Water beaded on skin stretched tight over muscle—shoulders broad, abs ridged, a faint scar snaking across one pec. The towel barely contained him; the outline beneath was… substantial.

I forgot the spoon in my hand.

“No clothes,” he said, sheepish. “Didn’t think that far.”

I laughed, too loud. “Right. Hold on.” I dragged him to my bedroom, flung open the closet. “My ex left half his life here. Pick something.”

He rifled through hangers. I leaned in the doorway, pretending to check the stove through the wall. When I turned back, he was staring at me, towel still on, one brow raised.

“Or,” I said, voice suddenly husky, “you could just… keep the towel.”

I winked—actually winked, like a goddamn cartoon—and sauntered back to the kitchen, hips swaying harder than necessary, I felt the blood rushing to my face. The lasagna beeped. I bent to pull it out, felt the air shift behind me. Marcus cleared his throat.

“These’ll do,” he said.

He’d chosen gray sweatpants and a white tee. The pants—my ex was five-ten, maybe one-seventy soaking wet—clung to Marcus like they’d been painted on. The tee stretched across his chest, seams whispering surrender. And lower… sweet mother of God. The outline of his cock lay thick against his thigh, heavy even soft, the head pressing a clear, obscene shape through the fabric.

I set the lasagna down with a clang. “Ex was… smaller.”

Marcus glanced down, then back at me, a slow grin tugging his mouth. “Looks that way.”

My nipples tightened against my blouse. Heat pooled between my legs,

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