Drying the clothes

Emily locked the breakroom door behind her with a soft click, then exhaled hard through her nose. The tile was cold beneath her bare feet. The air still held a trace of bleach and body spray, the unmistakable scent of a place made for men on short breaks and long hours.

She peeled her soaked shirt away from her skin, the wet cotton clinging stubbornly to the curve of her breasts, her bra straps tugging with a soft snap as she freed them. Her leggings made a disgusting squelch as she shoved them down, water running in small rivers along the backs of her knees. Even her underwear was dripping. Everything clung like seaweed.

She balled the garments up and shoved them into the humming dryer in the corner, glad for once that nothing she’d worn today was dry-clean-only. She adjusted the settings, slammed the door shut, and hit start.

It roared to life, tumbling the heap inside.

With a sigh, she turned and pulled the towel tight around her body.

It barely covered her. Just enough to tuck under her arms, the hem grazing high on her thighs and pulling at every movement. Damp already from her skin, it clung in strange places—sticking to the curve of one breast, gaping slightly along her side. She cinched it tighter and moved toward the opposite wall where a small industrial heater buzzed, pushing out dry warmth.

She sat down cross-legged on a folded mat someone had left near the unit, adjusting the towel so it didn’t ride too high, though one thigh remained exposed. Her back hit the wall. Her shoulders sagged.

And she just... breathed.

The noise outside was dull and distant. Compressors. Blowdryers. The occasional blast of pressured water. Male voices here and there, muffled beyond the concrete. No one would hear anything in here. She could scream and probably not be noticed.

She stared blankly at the whirring dryer.

Jason’s voice echoed back in her mind—dismissive, smug. You were just going to the gym anyway.

Fuck him.

Her jaw clenched as her hand gripped tighter around the edge of the towel. Naked. Alone. In some fluorescent-lit worker’s breakroom with water still dripping from her hair, her nipples stiff and aching against threadbare cotton. She hadn’t signed up for any of this. She hadn’t wanted to spend her one free hour naked in a strangers’ backroom, drying her husband’s mess off her skin.

Rage still simmered low and hot beneath her ribs. Helplessness burned with it. The towel, the heater, the damp tile—it all made her feel exposed. Strange. Seen, somehow, even when she wasn’t.

It had been so long since she’d felt in control. Since she’d felt... anything that wasn’t exhaustion or obligation. She drew her knees up slightly, tightening the towel again, but the heat was growing—inside and out.