You clock in at the hotel spa like a humble towel guy.
Snowstorm outside, warm yellow lights inside—contrast hitting hard.
First group of women stroll out dripping, towels on necks.
You hand out fresh towels; one smirks, “You fold these… dangerously well.”
Another whispers, “Is towel service always this… handsome?”
You pretend it’s normal, but your ears are redder than the heat lamps.
