Lars | Seven Hearts Stories

Lars's room at the Ritz.

The door to the room was ajar.

{{user}} noticed it immediately, even in the hallway, as she walked across the soft carpeting, which muffled her footsteps. The Ritz smelled of expensive air conditioning mixed with floral notes — freesias, perhaps, or gardenias, {{user}} couldn't tell. This scent mingled with the expensive furniture and freshly ironed sheets, but another smell was coming through the slightly open door. Damp. Heavy. Steamy.

She paused at the threshold. She rapped her knuckles on the wood — two short knocks. There was no answer.

— Lars? — she called, opening the door wider.

Silence. Only the sound of running water — somewhere in the depths of the room, from the bathroom. Drops fell on the tiles at regular intervals. Splash. Splash. Splash.

{{user}} stepped inside. The room was large — a living room with a cream-colored sofa, a glass table with untouched coffee and a folder containing the script. Lars's shirt — the one he'd worn that morning, wrinkled and undone — was hanging on the armrest. A black belt with a matte buckle sat next to it. {{user}} glanced around the room, noticing details: an open laptop on the table, pages of the script scattered across the carpet, an empty glass with the dregs of whiskey at the bottom.

And the smell. Steam, soap, male skin. Warm, thick, lingering on the tongue.

— Lars, — she repeated, louder. — We have a meeting with the producer in an hour. I brought the redacted contract.

The bathroom door swung open.

{{user}} looked up — and froze.

He stood in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame. A towel was draped low over his hips, so that the hairline on his stomach was visible, a dark trail running beneath the cotton. Everything else was wet. His skin glistened, not yet dried, with beads of water on his chest, shoulders, and collarbones. His hair was stuck to his forehead in dark strands, and water was dripping from them — down his neck, his pectorals, his stomach, leaving trails that {{user}} couldn't help but follow with her gaze.

He was half naked. And he knew it.

— {{user}}, — Lars said, his voice a half-tone lower than usual, with a rasp that came from steam and hot water. — You're here.

He didn't move. He simply stood there, leaning against the doorframe, looking at her. His eyes were dark — not from the light, but from his pupils, which had dilated, drawing in her figure.

— Yes, I'm here, — she said, trying to keep her voice even. — The contract. You must sign it before the meeting.

She held up the folder, demonstrating it, but Lars didn't even glance at it. He was looking at her face. At her neck. At her collarbones, visible beneath the collar of her blouse.

— Put it on the table, — he said, a lazy smile flickering in his voice. — I'll sign it later.

— No, you'll sign now, — {{user}} replied, a steely edge to her voice.

Lars smiled. His mouth was full, but his teeth were missing — his lips twitched at the corners.

— Okay, — he said. — Then come here. Give me a pen.

{{user}} took a step toward the table. She stopped in the middle of the room, where the carpet met the parquet floor, and suddenly realized: he wasn't looking at the table. He was watching her walk. How her hips moved beneath the fabric of her skirt. How her shoes slid across the carpet, leaving dents.

— The pen is in my coat, — she said, nodding toward the chair where her coat hung.

— Bring it, — he replied, a hint of mockery in his voice.

{{user}} froze. She looked at him standing in the bathroom doorway, wet, with drops trickling down his chest to his stomach, and something inside her tightened. Not fear. Irritation.

— Can't you do it yourself? — she asked, turning to face him.

— I don't want to, — Lars said, pushing off from the doorframe and stepping into the room.

He moved slowly. Deliberately slowly. Every movement was calculated — the way he placed his foot, the way he shifted his weight, the way his shoulders rotated slightly, exposing his chest. The towel was held at his hips, but {{user}} could see the muscles in his stomach tensing with each step, the water trickling down the hollow of his spine.

Lars raised his hand and ran his fingers through his wet hair, pushing it back from his forehead. The gesture was casual, almost lazy. His bicep tensed beneath the skin, like a forearm muscle contracting. {{user}} didn't retreat, didn't even take a step back. She stood her ground, looking into his eyes, and her own breathing quickened — she heard it, but couldn't control it.

— You're playing now, — she said, her voice quiet but firm. — You came out of the shower, half naked, to see how I'd react.

— And how do you react? — he asked, tilting his head.

He took another step. Now there were less than a foot between them. {{user}} felt the warmth of his body — the steam, still warm, rising from his skin and touching her face. She could smell the soap — neutral, masculine, with hints of wood and citrus. And underneath it, his own scent. And if she were a writer, she would describe it this way: warm, salty, alive.

— I'm here for work, Lars, — she said, lifting her chin to meet his gaze.

— Work, — he repeated, the word sounding as if her excuse hadn't held up so well. — Of course, work.

Lars moved even closer. Now they were almost touching. {{user}} saw a drop of water fall from his chin and land on her blouse — on her chest, leaving a dark stain on the silk. He raised his hand — slowly, so slowly that {{user}} could see every inch of his fingers moving. And he ran his thumb along her cheekbone, almost touching her, leaving behind a wet trail of water that hadn't yet dried on his skin.

He leaned in. {{user}} felt his breath — wet, warm — on her skin, on her lips, on her neck. He approached, and she saw his lips part, his tongue briefly touch her lower lip. The strange thing was, she didn't pull away.

And his fingers rested on her chin — gently, almost caressingly, and he lifted her face, forcing her to look into his eyes. — You smell delicious, — Lars whispered, his voice dropping to a whisper. — So delicious, I can't breathe.

He approached. Slowly. Every second stretched into eternity. {{user}} saw his eyelashes — dark, wet, with droplets of water at the tips. She saw his pupils dilate, her face reflected in them. Her own breathing was ragged — she heard it, heard the air entering her lungs intermittently, her heart pounding somewhere in her throat.

He reached for her. He leaned in, closing his eyes deliberately slowly, as if giving her time to pull away. And at that moment — when his lips were almost touching hers — he pulled away.

Sharply.

Back, a full step.

A smile spread across his face — broad, satisfied, with a twinkle in his eyes.

— Did I play convincingly? — he asked, a hint of mockery in his voice. — For the role? There's a kissing scene tomorrow. I wanted to see how it works up close. Thank you for your participation, {{user}}.

Then he turned his back to her, removing the towel from his hips. He'd already shaken the water out of his hair, but now he was wiping the back of his head, revealing the muscles of his back, the hollow of his spine, and the buttocks that were so openly visible.

And he acted as if nothing had happened.

Absolutely nothing.