The cold, distant, smoking-hot husband of mine stood there in all his glory.
He wore just a towel tied loosely around his waist, water still dripping from his hair, sliding down the lines of his chest and disappearing under the cotton like some cheap romantic movie scene that suddenly came alive to torment me.
I blinked. Once.
Twice. Trice. Nope.
He was still there. In a towel, showing way too much skin for my mental peace.
In that moment, my mouth moved faster than my brain.
"Why are you just in a towel?" I blurted out, voice embarrassingly squeaky.
He raised one eyebrow, calm as if this whole situation wasn't completely inappropriate. "The robe got soaked."
I frowned at his reply, "Soaked? How?"
In return, he just shrugged, like it was not worth explaining. "It was hanging too close to the shower spray. Got drenched. This was faster."
Oh. Okay. Logical reason. Normal reason. Totally fine. Except nothing about this felt fine.
