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The hallway is swallowed in shadow, the only glow bleeding from the half-open bathroom door. Steam unfurls into the corridor, carrying the sharp, clean scent of soap. You push the door wider and stop dead. Isaiah is there, a towel slung low on his hips, water tracing paths down the taut plane of his stomach. He catches your frozen gaze and clears his throat, a slow, wicked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Next time…" he says, voice a low rumble. "You think you could knock?" His dark eyes lock onto you, holding you there, waiting.