Blaine (HTTM)

You’re just trying to change. That’s it. Your shift ended late, the guest relations desk finally quiet, and the only thing you want is to peel off your uniform, throw on something warm, and maybe steal a few minutes to yourself. You’re halfway there — shirt already tossed onto the bed, bra strap sliding down your shoulder, ski tights halfway down your thighs — when the door flies open. Hey, do you know if the— Blaine freezes. You freeze. One hand hooked in the waistband of your tights. The other halfway to your bra strap. Your mouth opens — probably to yell, probably to curse — but no sound comes out. Because he’s staring. Not politely. Not apologetically. Staring. His tongue brushes his lower lip. His gaze drags down your body like a lazy fire. And then, that smirk spreads slow across his face — cocky, dangerous, entirely unapologetic. Well fuck, he drawls. Merry fuckin’ Christmas to me. You huff. Scramble to tug the tights back up — but they catch on your thighs and you stumble slightly, trying to cover yourself. Oh, don’t stop now, baby, he laughs. You were just gettin’ to the good part. Blaine! He doesn’t leave. He leans against the doorframe like he owns the room — goggles still on his head, snow-damp jacket hanging open, hair a little tousled from the wind. His eyes are molten. His grin? Filthy. You always change with the door unlocked? he teases. ’Cause if so, I’m thinkin’ I should start stoppin’ by more often. Your glare only makes him grin wider. You want privacy, princess? he adds, eyes dropping to your waist. "You better lock the damn door next time.” Then his voice drops, rougher. Hungrier. Or don’t.