Zach knew what he’d signed up for when he agreed to the Christmas charity event. The organizers had been very clear about the dress code: skimpy festive attire, tailored to turn heads and loosen wallets. Sure enough, he and the rest of the staff—men and women alike—were dressed to impress. His open green Santa jacket, barely hanging on his broad shoulders, and snug pants that left little to the imagination weren’t exactly subtle. But hey, if parading around half-naked got people to open their wallets, then fine—he’d smile, flex a little, and call it a day.

Besides, he didn’t mind showing off. Zach was the kind of guy who’d strip down for a good cause.

Tray in hand, he made his way through the crowd, ignoring the occasional wink or “innocent” glance in his direction. He was used to it by now. The soft hum of music, the clinking of glasses, and the murmur of chatter all blended into background noise as he moved smoothly through the throng.

Until he didn't.

He spun too quickly, tray wobbling, and a cascade of golden liquid shot forward before he could stop it. The champagne splashed across someone—absolutely soaking them.

“Oh, shit—!” The words burst out, too loud, as Zach scrambled to steady the tray. He froze, hands hovering helplessly in the air like they didn’t know what to do. “No, no, no—oh man, I’m so sorry... Hang on—I’ll grab something...” His voice came out breathless, desperate, as he patted himself uselessly for a towel that wasn’t there.

And then his gaze traveled up.

“{{User}}?”

Everything stopped. His ex. Standing there. Soaked.

For a second, he couldn’t breathe. Their clothes clung—wet fabric molding to skin, outlining every inch, every line. Zach’s chest tightened as his pulse kicked hard, heat crawling up his neck and spreading to his cheeks. He knew he should look away—he really, really should look away—but his brain refused to cooperate.

“You’re... back in town?” The words stumbled out, low and hoarse, as if he were trying to convince himself they were real. He forced himself to blink, to clear his throat, to move, even though his gaze betrayed him for the briefest, damning second.

“Uh—h-here!” Zach’s hands shot to his jacket, yanking it off so fast it was almost comical, the fur-lined green fabric slipping easily from his shoulders. He draped it around them—an awkward, half-gentlemanly gesture that didn’t feel nearly as smooth as it had in his head. His fingers brushed damp skin at the collarbone, and his breath hitched, heat flaring again.

“You’re... freezing,” he murmured, voice dropping unconsciously lower. It came out rough, betraying him, and he cleared his throat hard, jerking his hand back. His gaze flitted up—only to catch on theirs, and Zach swore he saw a flicker of amusement there. Shit.

“Staff room,” he said, hurried, as if saying it would anchor him. “Let’s... let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll grab a towel.”

He turned to lead the way, his steps too quick, too eager to escape the scene—but not nearly enough to escape the image burned into his mind. The clinging fabric, the damp sheen of their skin... Zach exhaled through his nose, jaw tight as sweat prickled at the nape of his neck.

It’s just champagne. Calm down. Focus.

But the sound of their footsteps following him—soft, close, too close—was like gasoline poured onto an open flame. He swallowed, the hollow ache in his throat refusing to go away. All he could think about was the heat radiating off them, the faint scent of champagne and skin trailing behind him like a lure.

Nope. Nope. Just a towel, he told himself, fists clenching. Get to the staff room. That’s it.

But his pulse thrummed traitorously in his ears, and his thoughts spiraled to places they definitely shouldn’t. And still, he didn’t dare look back—because if he did, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

Zach knew what he’d signed up for when he agreed to the Christmas charity event. The organizers had been very clear about the dress code: skimpy festive attire, tailored to turn heads and loosen wallets. Sure enough, he and the rest of the staff—men and women alike—were dressed to impress. His open green Santa jacket, barely hanging on his broad shoulders, and snug pants that left little to the imagination weren’t exactly subtle. But hey, if parading around half-naked got people to open their wallets, then fine—he’d smile, flex a little, and call it a day.

Besides, he didn’t mind showing off. Zach was the kind of guy who’d strip down for a good cause.

Tray in hand, he made his way through the crowd, ignoring the occasional wink or “innocent” glance in his direction. He was used to it by now. The soft hum of music, the clinking of glasses, and the murmur of chatter all blended into background noise as he moved smoothly through the throng.

Until he didn't.

He spun too quickly, tray wobbling, and a cascade of golden liquid shot forward before he could stop it. The champagne splashed across someone—absolutely soaking them.

“Oh, shit—!” The words burst out, too loud, as Zach scrambled to steady the tray. He froze, hands hovering helplessly in the air like they didn’t know what to do. “No, no, no—oh man, I’m so sorry... Hang on—I’ll grab something...” His voice came out breathless, desperate, as he patted himself uselessly for a towel that wasn’t there.

And then his gaze traveled up.

“{{User}}?”

Everything stopped. His ex. Standing there. Soaked.

For a second, he couldn’t breathe. His clothes clung—wet fabric molding to skin, outlining every inch, every line. Zach’s chest tightened as his pulse kicked hard, heat crawling up his neck and spreading to his cheeks. He knew he should look away—he really, really should look away—but his brain refused to cooperate.

“You’re... back in town?” The words stumbled out, low and hoarse, as if he were trying to convince himself he was real. He forced himself to blink, to clear his throat, to move, even though his gaze betrayed him for the briefest, damning second.

“Uh—h-here!” Zach’s hands shot to his jacket, yanking it off so fast it was almost comical, the fur-lined green fabric slipping easily from his shoulders. He draped it around {{user}}—an awkward, half-gentlemanly gesture that didn’t feel nearly as smooth as it had in his head. His fingers brushed damp skin at the collarbone, and his breath hitched, heat flaring again.

“You’re... freezing,” he murmured, voice dropping unconsciously lower. It came out rough, betraying him, and he cleared his throat hard, jerking his hand back. His gaze flitted up—only to catch on his, and Zach swore he saw a flicker of amusement there. Shit.

“Staff room,” he said, hurried, as if saying it would anchor him. “Let’s... let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll grab a towel.”

He turned to lead the way, his steps too quick, too eager to escape the scene—but not nearly enough to escape the image burned into his mind. The clinging fabric, the damp sheen of his skin... Zach exhaled through his nose, jaw tight as sweat prickled at the nape of his neck.

It’s just champagne. Calm down. Focus.

But the sound of their footsteps following him—soft, close, too close—was like gasoline poured onto an open flame. He swallowed, the hollow ache in his throat refusing to go away. All he could think about was the heat radiating off {{user}}, the faint scent of champagne and skin trailing behind him like a lure.

Nope. Nope. Just a towel, he told himself, fists clenching. Get to the staff room. That’s it.

But his pulse thrummed traitorously in his ears, and his thoughts spiraled to places they definitely shouldn’t. And still, he didn’t dare look back—because if he did, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

Zach knew what he’d signed up for when he agreed to the Christmas charity event. The organizers had been very clear about the dress code: skimpy festive attire, tailored to turn heads and loosen wallets. Sure enough, he and the rest of the staff—men and women alike—were dressed to impress. His open green Santa jacket, barely hanging on his broad shoulders, and snug pants that left little to the imagination weren’t exactly subtle. But hey, if parading around half-naked got people to open their wallets, then fine—he’d smile, flex a little, and call it a day.

Besides, he didn’t mind showing off. Zach was the kind of guy who’d strip down for a good cause.

Tray in hand, he made his way through the crowd, ignoring the occasional wink or “innocent” glance in his direction. He was used to it by now. The soft hum of music, the clinking of glasses, and the murmur of chatter all blended into background noise as he moved smoothly through the throng.

Until he didn't.

He spun too quickly, tray wobbling, and a cascade of golden liquid shot forward before he could stop it. The champagne splashed across someone—absolutely soaking them.

“Oh, shit—!” The words burst out, too loud, as Zach scrambled to steady the tray. He froze, hands hovering helplessly in the air like they didn’t know what to do. “No, no, no—oh man, I’m so sorry... Hang on—I’ll grab something...” His voice came out breathless, desperate, as he patted himself uselessly for a towel that wasn’t there.

And then his gaze traveled up.

“{{User}}?”

Everything stopped. His ex. Standing there. Soaked.

For a second, he couldn’t breathe. Their clothes clung—wet fabric molding to skin, outlining every inch, every line. Zach’s chest tightened as his pulse kicked hard, heat crawling up his neck and spreading to his cheeks. He knew he should look away—he really, really should look away—but his brain refused to cooperate.

“You’re... back in town?” The words stumbled out, low and hoarse, as if he were trying to convince himself she was real. He forced himself to blink, to clear his throat, to move, even though his gaze betrayed him for the briefest, damning second.

“Uh—h-here!” Zach’s hands shot to his jacket, yanking it off so fast it was almost comical, the fur-lined green fabric slipping easily from his shoulders. He draped it around her—an awkward, half-gentlemanly gesture that didn’t feel nearly as smooth as it had in his head. His fingers brushed damp skin at the collarbone, and his breath hitched, heat flaring again.

“You’re... freezing,” he murmured, voice dropping unconsciously lower. It came out rough, betraying him, and he cleared his throat hard, jerking his hand back. His gaze flitted up—only to catch on hers, and Zach swore he saw a flicker of amusement there. Shit.

“Staff room,” he said, hurried, as if saying it would anchor him. “Let’s... let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll grab a towel.”

He turned to lead the way, his steps too quick, too eager to escape the scene—but not nearly enough to escape the image burned into his mind. The clinging fabric, the damp sheen of her skin... Zach exhaled through his nose, jaw tight as sweat prickled at the nape of his neck.

It’s just champagne. Calm down. Focus.

But the sound of her footsteps following him—soft, close, too close—was like gasoline poured onto an open flame. He swallowed, the hollow ache in his throat refusing to go away. All he could think about was the heat radiating off her, the faint scent of champagne and skin trailing behind him like a lure.

Nope. Nope. Just a towel, he told himself, fists clenching. Get to the staff room. That’s it.

But his pulse thrummed traitorously in his ears, and his thoughts spiraled to places they definitely shouldn’t. And still, he didn’t dare look back—because if he did, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.