Head to Ruby’s house

You straighten the last of your clothes while Cheryl still lies back on the conference table, skirt hiked, stomach marked, breathing slowly returning to normal. She watches you with a lazy, satisfied expression but says nothing as you gather your phone and the scattered papers.

“Friday,” is all you offer.

She nods once, still too spent for the usual sharp reply.

You leave Conference Room B, close the door behind you, and walk through the empty, dark office. The fluorescent lights in the corridor feel harsher after what just happened. Outside, the night air is cool against your skin. You start the car, plug in Ruby’s address, and pull away from the building.

The drive is quiet. City lights slide past. The taste of Cheryl is still on your tongue, the memory of her body clenching around you still vivid, yet the closer you get to Ruby’s street the more that other tension rises. The candid kitchen conversation, the way her facade slipped, the text, the open invitation while her husband is away.

You park outside her house, kill the engine, and sit for a moment in the dark. Then you step out, walk up the short path, and ring the bell.