The Bathhouse Secret

Camp life had no room for privacy. Everything felt crowded—endless lines, noisy hostels, and a rush for the bathrooms before the trumpet dragged us all out for parade.

One early morning, I carried my bucket into the bathhouse, determined to freshen up before the rush. The bathroom was separated by nothing more than flimsy curtains that barely held in place.

As I began to wash, she walked in—the same girl who had caught my attention since the first day of camp. Tall, graceful, her skin glowing even under the dim light. She slipped into the stall beside mine, tying her towel casually around her chest. The curtain between us swayed, leaving small gaps.

I tried not to look, but when she bent to pour water, my eyes betrayed me. The towel loosened slightly, her skin damp with drops of cold water. She noticed me watching. For a moment, I expected her to frown. Instead, she gave a small, knowing smile.

Then, in a voice so soft it felt like it brushed against my skin, she asked:
“Do you want to help me scrub my back?”

I froze, heartbeat racing, but stepped closer. My hand touched the bar of soap and slowly traced across her back. Her skin was warm, her body close enough that I could feel the heat radiating through the air between us. The world outside blurred—just water, breath, and the forbidden nearness of her body.

Then the camp trumpet blared loudly. She giggled, snatched her towel, and whispered as she walked away:
“Don’t overthink it… it’s just our secret.”

Every time I hear that camp trumpet, I still remember her laughter echoing inside the bathhouse.

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