He follows her in

Emily stepped through the door, the fluorescent light above buzzing faintly as it clicked shut behind her. The room was small—just a single-stall restroom, clean enough, mirror smudged, paper towels in a crooked metal dispenser. She didn’t even glance at it. Her fingers were already working at her shirt buttons, quick and quiet, cheeks still warm from the mistake in the produce aisle.

Behind her, she heard the door latch click again.

She turned, halfway through unfastening the third button, brows lifting—

But he was already there.

In one stride he closed the space between them and caught her face with both hands, mouth crashing into hers before she could even say a word. His lips were hot, eager, clumsy—not gentle, not careful. His breath tasted like cheap energy drink and mint gum. Emily let out a muffled sound against his mouth, arms caught between them, hands still clutching her half-open shirt.

Then she felt him—one hand sliding down, finding the loose edge of her nursing bra and folding it away as if he knew exactly how it worked. His fingers cupped her breast, warm and bold, thumb flicking across her exposed nipple. She gasped, tried to speak—but he didn’t give her room. His mouth was back on hers, tongue insistent, as his other hand slipped down between her jeans and her skin, diving past the waistband and right into the heat below.

“Mmh—” she stiffened, eyes going wide as his fingers brushed over her, bold and quick and—God—skilled.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t even gentle.

But he knew what he was doing.

Two fingers found her slit and stroked her clit in tight, practiced circles, while the heel of his palm pressed lower, angling her hips just slightly. His thumb grazed her nipple again and she jerked, a noise catching in her throat.

She could barely think.

It was too fast. Too sudden. And yet her body—her traitorous, hungry, aching body—responded without hesitation. Wetness bloomed. Her thighs trembled. Her chest arched instinctively into his palm, and when he pinched her nipple between his fingers, she moaned against his mouth, her knees starting to go.

She hadn’t even said his name.

She hadn’t said anything.

But she hadn’t stopped him either.

And that part—somewhere behind the panic, behind the rush, behind the shock—felt louder than all the rest.