Wash 18
Just seconds after reaching the campus restroom,
Teddy yanked off his white pants,
exhaling in relief when he realized there was no stain.
Small victories, he thought, pressing a hand to his unsettled stomach.
"What’s going on? Why is my stomach acting up?
Could it be something I ate? My mom’s sudden revelation that she’s a cartel boss in Guatemala?
Or maybe the fact that I’m sitting in an exam, staring at questions I can’t even read?
Not to mention that creepy instructor breathing down my neck—"
His stomach groaned in protest.
Yup. Possibly the last one.
Neatly folding his pants and placing them on the counter,
Teddy hurried into the stall, lowering himself onto the seat in nothing but his underwear.
The sheer humiliation of the day settled over him like a weighted blanket.
His mother was a cartel boss.
Everyone laughed at him
and the worst part—- the quick and panic exit
with his hand trying to hold everything in
totally afraid of a major explosion.
Lucky him that did not happen because there’s
no way he can RECOVER from such a shocking incident.
When he finally emerged, still adjusting his waistband,
he FROZE.
Roger stood by the sink.
Waiting.
Arms crossed. Silent. Watching.
Teddy’s stomach did a different kind of flip.
Not now. Not here.
"Roger…?"
Roger’s gaze flickered downward—just for a second—before
napping back up.
Teddy’s face burned as he instinctively covered himself, as if that would help.
The last time they’d been alone together,
Roger had gut-punched him and left him with something
nasty scrawled on his back.
And now? Now Teddy was standing there half-naked, vulnerable,
and completely at Roger’s mercy.
"Roger, I—" He cleared his throat.
"I was actually gonna stop by your dorm later to pick up your laundry. I just—"
Roger held out his pants.
No teasing. No smirk. No sharp, arrogant edge to his voice.
Just silence.
Teddy hesitated before taking them, eyes never leaving Roger’s face.
This wasn’t like him. Roger always had some cruel joke, some smug expression.
But now, his jaw was tight, his posture stiff—as if he was struggling to keep himself together.
And was that… guilt?
Roger exhaled, shifting his weight. "I've been meaning to talk to you."
Teddy slid his pants back on, watching him warily.
If you’re about to gut-punch me again, please don’t. My stomach’s already wrecked."
For the first time, Roger chuckled.
But it wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t mean.
It was soft.
"Nah," Roger murmured. "No more of that. I’m a changed guy, Teddy. I found…"
“Jesus?” Teddy almost choked.
Roger inhaled deeply, “I found myself, a better version of myself, a new-better me.”
His voice trailed off. Instead, he reached into his pocket and
pulled out a thick wad of crumpled bills. He shoved it toward Teddy.
Teddy blinked. "What’s this?"
Roger dragged a hand through his hair, pacing.
His jaw clenched, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if swallowing something painful.
When he turned back, his eyes were glassy.
Teddy blinked at Roger, trying to make sense of what he’d just said.
“I found a better version of myself,” Roger continued,
his voice calm, almost reverent. “A newer version of me.”
Teddy frowned. "Huh?"
Roger smiled faintly, then let his voice trail off,
as if he couldn’t find the right words to explain.
Instead, he took a slow step forward, his presence filling the
space between them, the scent of his cologne—dark,
'woodsy, with a faint trace of citrus—washing over Teddy.
Teddy shifted uncomfortably, trying to push down
the strange twist in his stomach.
“You can gut punch me,” Roger said suddenly. “To make up for it.”
Teddy opened his mouth to respond, but then Roger did something unexpected.
Slowly, deliberately, Roger reached for the hem of his shirt.
He tugged it up inch by inch, the movement excruciatingly unhurried,
as if he had all the time in the world.
First, his toned lower abdomen came into view, smooth and taut,
a shadow of definition teasing just beneath his navel.
Then, as the fabric lifted higher,
each individual ridge of his abs emerged like a work of art,
sculpted and painfully perfect.
Teddy’s breath hitched.
His body froze, but his eyes betrayed him—locked,
unable to look away, unable to stop tracing every precise,
chiseled dip. His throat went dry.
He forced himself to blink, but when he did, the sight only became clearer.
The lighting in the dimly lit bathroom played tricks,
making Roger’s skin glow almost unnaturally smooth.
A single droplet of sweat beaded at the center of his chest,
trembling for a moment before beginning its slow descent. It rolled languidly down,
slipping between the contours of his abs, tracing the
grooves as if mapping out every dangerous detail.
Teddy swallowed hard, eyes following the trail helplessly.
The droplet reached Roger’s waistband—teetering—before vanishing into the fabric.
His fingers twitched. He needed to look away. He had to look away.
Roger noticed.
A smirk curled at the edge of his lips—brief, fleeting—but then,
as if masking it, he softened back into something innocent,
something angelic. He let his shirt drop back into place,
the show over as quickly as it had begun.
Teddy exhaled, his pulse pounding in his ears.
His heart was hammering so hard it felt deafening.
His phone rings. It was Cliff.
Teddy ignored his phone.
He stared back at Roger.
His phone rings again. It was Drew.
Again, he ignored his phone.
Roger pretended not to notice.
Instead, his voice turned gentle again.
“I’d love to see you at one of my Saturday concerts at the bar.
You know where I perform, right? It’s just across the university”
Teddy nods. What Roger said barely registered.
What’s going on?
He muttered something—some half-response—and
stumbled toward the door.
His legs felt unsteady, his body heated in a way he didn’t want to analyze.
As he stepped into the hallway,
a strange sensation prickled down his spine.
A cold shiver.
The kind that came with the feeling of being watched.
He turned, but the bathroom door was already closing behind him.
Inside, in the dim light of the mirrors and tiled walls,
a shadow emerged from one of the stalls.
The faint glow of a cigarette ember flared as the figure took a slow, deliberate drag.
Roger turned toward the shadow.
A smile ghosted across his lips.
Then, without hesitation, he leaned in
roughly grab the shadow
and pressed his mouth to the figure’s lips.
The ember flickered once more, then died
between fingers as the cigarette was crushed.
The trap had been set.
