We Don't Talk About That Night
DOWN THE HALL – PART IV
In the last installment of Down the Hall…
R. Adrian Thorne
The hall meeting was exactly what you’d expect.
Fluorescent lighting. Bad folding chairs. An underpaid sophomore named Dakota reading off a clipboard like he was hosting a game show for emotionally constipated freshmen.
“We don’t prop open exterior doors,” he said, like someone had just done that this morning.
“No overnight guests unless they’re signed in with housing.”
And, my personal favorite: “The third shower stall has half a light. I’ve submitted three tickets. Don’t use that as an excuse to do weird shit in the dark.”
A couple guys laughed.
Wes showed up late.
Slid into the room with damp hair and that same hoodie from two nights ago. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at me.
But when he walked past, his shoulder brushed mine.
On purpose.
There’s a specific kind of silence that happens when someone who’s touched you sits close enough to do it again but doesn’t.
It’s not silence at all.
It’s a dare.
After the meeting, the hallway dissolved into a chaos of dorm noise — music, laughter, the clatter of someone trying to microwave soup in a paper plate.
I grabbed a towel and my caddy and headed toward the bathroom.
Not because I needed a shower.
Because I needed distance from my own thoughts.
The bathroom was humid and half-lit. One of the overhead panels flickered like a warning sign, buzzing low above the sinks. The third stall — right in front of me — was cracked open. Steam spilled out like a secret.
I took the one across from it.
Pulled the curtain halfway closed.
Dropped my towel.
The water was too hot at first. I didn’t care. I tilted my head back and tried to let it all go.
Then I looked up.
Across the aisle — that third stall?
Wes.
His curtain was cracked. Just enough.
Steam curled around his silhouette, backlit by the sputtering light overhead. It should’ve been too dark to see anything.
But I saw enough.
He didn’t have much chest hair. Just a fine dusting beneath his collarbones, like a suggestion. The rest of him was smooth. Cut.
Built in that quiet, unfair way where you wonder if he’s ever had to try.
His hand was on himself.
Slow. Confident. Lazy, like he wasn’t in a rush to finish — just enjoying the heat, the pressure, the knowledge that someone might be watching.
And someone was.
Me.
My heart stuttered.
He looked up.
Right at me.
Didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide.
Didn’t stop.
He turned slightly, enough for me to catch the curve of his hips, the trail of hair running down from his stomach into the shadowed space I couldn’t fully see. There was a decent bush, neat but natural, and his thighs were tense with each stroke.
But the rest?
Lost in darkness and steam.
It didn’t matter. What I couldn’t see only made it worse. Or better. Or both.
I swallowed. My breath caught. My body responded before my brain had time to stop it.
I pressed my back to the tiled wall, eyes still locked on that half-open curtain, and reached down.
The tile was cold. My hand was hot. I matched his rhythm without meaning to—slow, drawn out, greedy.
He tipped his head back.
The curve of his neck. The muscles in his arm tightening. One palm flat on the tile like he needed the wall to hold himself up.
I mirrored him. Couldn’t help it.
The water hit my chest in uneven pulses, but I barely felt it. Every nerve in my body was watching him. Wanting him.
I closed my eyes just long enough to imagine him in my stall—breath against my neck, hand wrapping around mine, hips pressed into me like we had time to make it count.
My other hand clenched the edge of the divider.
The sounds of the shower grew louder. Steam thickened. I felt the edge coming fast—
And then—
The curtain snapped shut.
Hard.
I blinked.
Steam swallowed his silhouette. Gone.
A second later, his curtain pulled open again—this time all the way—and he stepped out into the lit part of the room.
Towel around his waist. No shame. No glance back.
He didn’t even look at me.
He just stood there for a second, perfectly lit by the flickering fluorescent like a work of art that knew it was being observed.
Then he left.
I stood there under scalding water, alone, still hard, and suddenly very aware that whatever this was—it wasn’t going away anytime soon.
Back in my room, I dried off and sat on the edge of the bed like it might offer some kind of clarity.
My phone buzzed.
Wes: you good?
I stared at it for a long time.
Didn’t answer.
Because here’s the truth:
When someone kisses you like a secret and touches you like a promise, you don’t want a “you good.”
You want to be wrecked again.
You want to be chosen.
You want more.
TO BE CONTINUED…
