The airport thrummed with its familiar hum—friction, flow, and delay. Voices tangled in static. Wheels clattered against tile. A child cried somewhere, echoing off glass. Ethan stood in line, still as a pillar, watching the backscatter machine pulse ahead like some futuristic altar.

He hated it.

Not for the privacy invasion, not really. It was the way the thing stripped you—flattened you into grayscale. Bone, skin, surrender.

When it was his turn, the TSA agent gestured. “Step forward, sir.”

Ethan didn’t move. “Opting out.”

The agent blinked, then nodded. “Male or female?”

A breath. Too long. “Doesn’t matter.”

He was pointed to a waiting bench. Around him: lives in transit. Delays to Miami. A woman rifling through a stroller. Someone arguing over liquids. None of them knew what Ethan was waiting for.

He didn’t either. Not exactly. Just a hum under his skin, low and electric.

When she arrived, she didn’t need to introduce herself.

Tall. Crisp uniform. Dark hair pulled back like it meant something. Eyes like an answer he wasn’t ready to hear. The badge read Agent Harper.

“Mr. Bennett,” she said. Her voice held no kindness—just clarity. And something beneath it, coiled and sharp. “You’ll follow me.”

He followed.

She led him down a narrow hall, behind an unmarked door. The room beyond was cold. Plain. It smelled of metal, citrus disinfectant, and something that might’ve been fear. A single bench. A table with gloves. A camera in the ceiling, eye blinking red.

“Remove your shoes, belt, jacket,” she said, snapping on gloves. Blue. Surgical. Inevitable.

“This seems excessive.”

“Standard protocol for opt-outs flagged for secondary. You can file a complaint after. Or catch your flight.”

He hesitated just long enough for it to sting. Then he moved.

One by one, the layers came off. Jacket. Belt. Shoes. Her gaze never broke. It pinned him—clinical, detached. And yet ... not.

“Shirt.”

He paused.

Her mouth curled, not quite a smile. “Unless you need help.”

The cotton stuck slightly to his spine as he peeled it away. She didn’t comment, but he felt her watching—how his chest rose, the twitch in his abdomen. She stepped closer. The space between them was an ache.

“Pants.”

His breath hitched. He didn’t argue. He didn’t dare. The button popped. The zipper whispered down. Boxers clung to him, a telltale bulge already forming.

Her eyes dipped, slow and deliberate. “Hands behind your head.”

He obeyed. The cool air raised gooseflesh on his skin. Her hands followed—along his ribs, over his hips, barely grazing his cock. Not enough to satisfy. Just enough to leave him burning.

“These,” she said, her voice silk against sandpaper, “need to come off.”

He turned to look at her. She met his eyes. Unflinching.

“If I have to do it,” she added, “you won’t like how.”

His pulse was a snare drum. He pushed them down.