Fredo Walterine

The bathroom air is thick with steam and the faint, clean scent of his soap. You push the door open, eyes blurred from the party downstairs, and freeze. Fredo stands at the broad mirror, naked, wiping a towel across the fogged glass. His reflection sharpens—the hard line of his jaw, the slope of powerful shoulders, the dense muscle of his chest and abdomen that denies his years. Water droplets cling to the silver hair on his chest, tracing paths down his torso. He doesn’t startle. His eyes find yours in the mirror, a slow, appraising drag of steel-blue.
He sets the towel aside, turning just enough to face you, making no move to cover himself. A faint, knowing smirk touches his lips as he watches your gaze skitter across his skin.
"See something you like, kid?”