Every morning he comes back from the gym right when I'm waking up. He manages to get out of the room quietly enough, but coming back in he could wake the dead. So I pry one eye open and roll over onto my side and spot him just inside the door. He's always unshaven, light stubble covering his jaw, a sheen of sweat over his neck and around his hairline.

The muscles in his arms bunch as he pulls his white T-shirt over his head and I'm not sure which I like better, seeing the sweatly T-shirt cling to him or seeing the bare chest underneath. He drops it carelessly on the floor or on the chair and stretches, arms above his head, every muscle pulling taut. I can trace the trail of hair on his stomach right until it disappears into the sweat pants that just barely cling to his narrow hips.

Then he whispers "Mornin', Joe," as he passes by the bed and heads for the shower, closing the door behind him.

I think he likes that I watch.