Jason's office for lunch

Emily balanced the brown paper lunch bag carefully in one hand, her other hand smoothing the hem of her skirt as a breeze caught it outside the building’s glass double doors. It was a pale, cottony thing—mid-thigh, breezy and unlined, the kind she used to wear before Chloe, when mornings weren’t dictated by feedings and spit-up and diapers. Her thighs brushed with each step, bare and soft beneath the swirl of fabric. No tights, no shaping shorts. Just skin.

The top was a white nursing tank, snug and low-cut, and beneath it: nothing. No bra. She’d thought about it, standing in front of the mirror this morning with the baby finally asleep. Her breasts looked full, round, heavier than before the pregnancy and more sensitive lately. The fabric clung slightly where it shouldn't have—highlighting the curve beneath, the outline of her nipples against the light cotton—but that wasn’t a reason to change. Jason had always liked when she didn’t wear one.

If he even notices.

She adjusted her oatmeal-colored cardigan, trying not to overthink it. This wasn’t a seduction. She wasn’t staging some dramatic rekindling. It was lunch—simple, thoughtful, meant to say: I miss you. I still care.

The wrap inside was grilled chicken with avocado, wrapped fresh from the market café near home. The juice was one of those overpriced green blends Jason always claimed to like, and she’d even added a brownie—still warm in wax paper. A treat. A sweet gesture.

The lobby inside was all polished concrete and hushed conversations, glass walls and steel beams—the kind of modern, expensive aesthetic that made Emily feel like she should’ve worn something with buttons. The receptionist behind the front desk looked up with a startled expression, her smile rising quickly and then faltering.

“Oh—hi. Um, Mr. Davenport’s in a meeting right now.”

Emily offered a warmer smile in return, not stopping. “That’s okay. I know the floor. I’ll just drop this off.”

There was a pause, like the receptionist wanted to say something else. But she didn’t.

The elevator opened with a soft chime. Emily stepped in, brushing hair back from her face as the doors closed behind her. Her reflection in the brushed steel walls surprised her—color in her cheeks, neckline dipping low, the skirt flowing loose around her legs. She looked flushed, almost glowing.

She inhaled slowly, watching the floor numbers tick upward.

She hadn’t seen Jason in this space since before maternity leave. He used to text her midday, send her memes, little notes like Thinking of you. He used to kiss her in the kitchen while Chloe kicked in her swing, used to press her into the laundry room door and whisper that she still drove him crazy.

But lately… he didn’t touch her anymore. Barely even looked. Just tired eyes, quiet dinners, one foot already out the door before she even woke up.

Maybe he’s just stressed. Maybe he needs a reminder.

The doors opened with a soft hiss. She stepped out onto the floor, smile tightening. The hallway was quiet, carpeted in gray, offices lined with wood panels with paintings on the wall. It'd been a while though so she couldn't remember which door was his, but that was easy enough since they all had name plaques.

She shifted the bag in her hands and moved forward, heart picking up just a little.

Just enough to hope.