John woke up late the following day, luxuriating in the freedom his schedule allowed him. With the clock nearing ten, he knocked on the door of the next room, receiving no response.

"Out for breakfast?" he mused, pushing the living room door open. The sound of splashing water caught his attention, and he peeked outside just as Charlie was emerging from the pool.

Charlie raked his fingers through his hair, revealing a smooth forehead glistening with droplets. They traced a path from his nose down to his lips, continuing an enticing journey over his throat, collarbone, and well-defined chest. The water clung to him, accentuating every muscle with mesmerizing clarity. John couldn't help but admire the toned physique—muscular without appearing overdone, perfectly matching his tastes.

Charlie's waist was lean yet powerful, and the snug swim trunks left little to the imagination. His defined muscles screamed of dedication, each shift of his body captivating. John's gaze lingered, tracking a bead of water as it traveled along Charlie's abdomen, disappearing beneath the swimwear.

John inhaled sharply at the unfair youthfulness of it all. At times, he felt his reason and baser instincts battle, forcing himself to silently chant the mantra of a proud guardian to ground his thoughts.

Feigning nonchalance, he called out, "Morning, Charlie!"

Charlie stiffened, halting mid-movement hair toss. His response was muffled and grumpy. "Who asked you to play alarm clock?"

John glanced up at the blazing sun, unfazed. "It’s well into the day, I’d say. Have you had breakfast?"

"I’d starve waiting for you," Charlie retorted brusquely, reaching for a towel to rub over his face with chaotic vigor.

John was unbothered by the outburst, his voice upbeat. "Looks like you’re getting self-sufficient—I’m sure that’ll comfort your mother."

The towel flew his way, and John caught it effortlessly, listening to Charlie’s simmering frustration. "Who’re you calling mom? Don’t expect me to call you that!"

"Fair enough. How about brother?" John ventured, teasing playfully. "I’m too young and lively for fatherhood anyway."

Charlie huffed a laugh, "What, is being my dad a step down for you?"

Oh, this kid was difficult, all right—perpetually contrary and irritable. Yet John’s patience held firm. "So, what should I call you? ‘Hey’ is pretty American, after all." He folded the towel methodically, setting it on a lounge chair as he coaxed Charlie into amicable negotiation.

Charlie seemed distracted, his gaze taking in John's casually worn shorts and T-shirt, remnants of a hastily tied ponytail adding to the air of relaxed composure. It was a perfectly normal wardrobe considering the thirty-degree weather, although Charlie’s fluctuating expressions hinted at the abnormal stirrings within him.

Since early in the morning, Charlie battled conflicting sensations, an unsettling reminder of dreams that conjured fantasies laced with forbidden allure. Vivid images lingered—imaginary limbs entwining his form as warm as the sun yet soothing as moonbeams. Such visions haunted his waking hours, casting a shadow over his reality.

Earlier, the cold shower did little to cool his turmoil, and returning fantasies submerged him into restless waters, mingling discomfort with curiosity about the foundational depths of his desire.

Lost in thought, Charlie barely noticed John's approach. It wasn’t until John’s playful "What are you daydreaming about?" accompanied by wiggles of starfish-spread fingers before Charlie sna—back to present realities. He blinked, startled, at John leaning a tad too close. His razor-sharp eyesight could discern every fine hair lining John's skin.

"…What do they call you?" His voice, unexpectedly gravelly, regained command, eyes diverting downwards involuntarily to John’s closer-than-hoped presence.

"Huh?" John quirked an eyebrow, perplexed by Charlie’s abrupt line of questioning.

"I said," Charlie growled with palpable exasperation, "what does the old man call you?"

"Just John." Seemingly unimcomplicated but perhaps oblivious overly to suggest any other aliases piquing Charlie's suspicion.

"Yeah, then I’ll stick with that." Charlie shrugged, uninterested. "Let’s get lunch." Unceremoniously, he turned on his heel, leaving behind a trail of clinging water droplets on his broad back, the movement effortlessly blending masculine allure with residual charm.

John watched him go, then shook his head, mentally noting to replenish his digital collection of captivating men—recently, his willpower seemed lacking.

Scene Ends with John pondering his own regimented interests.