The bathhouse on 14th Street was a relic of a grittier era, a place where the walls wept condensation and the air hung heavy with the musk of sweat and old pipes. Dim fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sickly glow over the cracked, mosaic tiles. The faint groan of the plumbing was a constant, like the building itself was alive and grumbling about its lot in life. It was the kind of place you went to forget—or to burn something out of your system.
Evgeny Sidorenko shoved through the rusted metal door with a grunt, his work boots scuffing against the damp floor. His fiery red hair was a mess, plastered to his forehead with the day’s grime, and his jaw was set tight enough to crack teeth. Twelve hours at the warehouse, hauling crates for a boss who couldn’t spell ‘appreciation,’ had left him a coiled spring of frustration. He needed this—needed the heat, the steam, the chance to sweat out the rage before it ate him alive. Without a second thought, he yanked off his sweat-soaked T-shirt, revealing a lean, wiry frame marked by a few old scars, and tossed it onto a bench. His jeans followed, leaving him in nothing but a threadbare towel slung low on his hips. He didn’t give a damn who was watching.
In the shadowed corner of the steam room, Stalloves lounged like a king on a throne of chipped tile. His long black hair clung to his broad, sculpted shoulders, wet and gleaming under the faint light. A smirk tugged at the corner of his full lips as he watched Evgeny storm in, all sharp edges and barely contained energy. Stalloves was a regular here, a man who carried himself like he owned every room he entered, and the bathhouse was no exception. His dark eyes tracked Evgeny’s every move, lingering on the way the towel barely clung to those narrow hips, before flicking back up to meet the redhead’s scowl.
“Well, damn,” Stalloves drawled, his voice low and lazy, cutting through the hiss of steam. “If it isn’t the human fireball himself. What’s got you stomping around like a toddler who dropped his ice cream? Cute little temper tantrum you’re throwing there.”
Evgeny froze mid-step, his green eyes narrowing as he whipped his head toward the source of the voice. He spotted Stalloves, sprawled out like he hadn’t a care in the world, and his lip curled into a sneer. “Oh, look, it’s the resident asshole. What, you just sit here all day waiting to run your mouth? Get a hobby, dickhead.”
Stalloves chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed off the slick walls. He shifted, one arm draping casually over the back of the bench, his towel slipping just enough to show a hint of thigh. “Oh, I’ve got hobbies. Watching you stomp around half-naked is climbing the list real fast, though. You always this pissed off, or am I just lucky?”
Evgeny’s face flushed, though whether from the heat or the jab, he couldn’t tell. He stalked closer, planting himself a few feet from Stalloves, hands on his hips. “Keep talking, pretty boy. I’ve got all night to shut you up.”
“Pretty boy, huh?” Stalloves raised a brow, his smirk widening as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, closing some of the distance between them. His gaze raked over Evgeny, slow and deliberate, taking in the sweat already beading on his pale skin. “Takes one to know one, Red. Though I gotta say, all that fire in you? It’s almost... endearing.”
“Endearing?” Evgeny barked out a laugh, sharp and biting, though his pulse kicked up a notch under that stare. He crossed his arms, the motion flexing the lean muscle of his biceps. “You’re full of shit. What, you think batting your lashes is gonna get under my skin? Try harder.”
Stalloves tilted his head, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, I don’t need to try, sweetheart. I’m already there. But since you’re so tough, how ‘bout a little challenge? Let’s see who can handle the heat better. First one to bail on this steam loses. Unless you’re scared, of course.”
Evgeny’s jaw twitched, but a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself. He stepped closer, the steam swirling around them, thick and suffocating. “Scared? Of you? Please. I’ll cook you alive in here, big guy. Name the stakes.”
Stalloves leaned back again, his posture all lazy confidence, though his eyes never left Evgeny’s. “Loser buys drinks after. And maybe... I don’t know, admits they’re not as tough as they pretend to be. Think you can handle that, Red?”
“Handle it?” Evgeny scoffed, dropping onto the bench across from Stalloves, close enough that their knees nearly brushed. He leaned forward, mirroring the other man’s pose, his voice dropping to a taunt. “I’ll have you crying for mercy before the steam even peaks. Better start practicing your apology now.”
The air between them crackled, the heat of the room amplifying the tension that simmered beneath their words. The steam thickened, obscuring the edges of the space, wrapping them in a hazy, intimate bubble. Sweat rolled down Evgeny’s temple, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, and Stalloves watched it with an intensity that made the redhead’s skin prickle. In return, Evgeny’s gaze lingered on the way the moisture clung to Stalloves’ chest, highlighting every ridge of muscle as it rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths.
“Damn, you’re stubborn,” Stalloves murmured, his voice a low purr now, almost lost in the hiss of the steam. He shifted, just enough that their knees did touch this time, a fleeting brush of skin on skin. “But I gotta admit, it looks good on you. All that fight. Makes a guy wonder what else you’ve got in you.”
Evgeny swallowed hard, the heat in the room—and in his chest—making his head swim. He didn’t pull back, though. Instead, he leaned in a fraction, his voice rough but steady. “Keep wondering, asshole. I don’t break easy. But you? I bet I could make you fold with one good push.”
Stalloves’ smirk returned, but there was something darker, hungrier in it now. “Push all you want, Red. I don’t fold for anyone. But I’m real curious to see how close you’ll get before you crack.”
Their faces were closer now, closer than either of them had meant to allow, the steam blurring the lines between challenge and something else entirely. Evgeny’s breath came heavier, mingling with Stalloves’ in the scant space between them. Their eyes locked, green on black, neither willing to look away, neither willing to back down. The heat pressed in, unbearable, but it was nothing compared to the fire building between them—a spark waiting to ignite.
And in that shrouded, sweltering corner of the bathhouse, with the world reduced to the hiss of steam and the pounding of their own pulses, neither man moved to close the gap... yet.
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