Dylan’s better judgment won out, a rare victory over his reckless streak. “Not today, swamp beast,” he muttered, eyeing the pulsating hole one last time before turning his focus upward. The waistband was his ticket out, and he wasn’t about to let curiosity drag him back into the abyss.
Gritting his teeth, he clawed his way up the damp fabric of Tim’s underwear, each inch a battle against the slick, sweaty surface. His muscles burned, and the musky air clung to his lungs, but the faint glow of freedom above kept him moving. Finally, his fingers hooked over the elastic band, and with a desperate heave, he pulled himself out, tumbling onto the relatively cooler expanse of Tim’s lower back. The air out here was still heavy with Tim’s scent, but it was a damn sight better than the suffocating crevice below.
Dylan crouched low, catching his breath, his tiny form hidden in the shadow of Tim’s waistband. The giant was still lounging, oblivious to his minuscule passenger, his massive body sprawled across the couch. Dylan could hear the faint murmur of the TV and the occasional creak of the furniture under Tim’s weight. James, Tim’s roommate, was still in the room, judging by the sound of footsteps and the clink of a beer bottle. “Gotta wait this out,” Dylan whispered, wiping sweat from his brow. He wasn’t about to risk being spotted—not after everything he’d just endured.
He stayed low, clinging to the coarse hairs on Tim’s skin for stability, and waited. Minutes dragged on, the heat from Tim’s body radiating up through Dylan’s tiny frame. Finally, he heard James yawn and mutter something about heading to bed. The footsteps faded, followed by the soft click of a door. Tim was alone now.