Head to the Office Changing Room

Emily walked briskly, head down, arms folded over her chest.

The salsa had cooled to a sticky cling against her skin, and every step made the fabric shift over her nipples—each movement a slow drag of damp cotton over painfully sensitive peaks. Her bra felt too tight. The wet patches were spreading. Her blouse clung to her like a second skin, semi-transparent now in places, the pale lace of her nursing bra clearly visible. Her nipples refused to go down.

By the time she reached the office building, she wasn’t sure what felt worse—the cold dampness between her breasts or the lingering pulse low in her belly from that accidental touch.

Ty Calderon. She didn’t even know the man. But now she knew what his knuckles felt like brushing across her nipple through thin fabric. The memory stuck like heat in her chest.

She pushed through the side entrance—less chance of bumping into anyone—nodded once to the bored security guard (who didn’t look up), and slipped down the hallway toward the women’s changing room.

Not many people used it. It was tucked behind the fitness center they barely advertised, near the back staircase, usually quiet during the day. She kept her head down as she passed the hall corner where Eric’s door stood cracked open.

If he looked up, she didn’t see it.

-0-

The changing room was empty.

Cool tile, overhead fluorescents, faint citrus-scented cleaner. Emily exhaled, the sudden quiet giving her room to feel the mess sticking to her skin. She peeled off her blouse with a soft grunt, the damp cotton peeling away slowly, her skin pink where the salsa had soaked in. The bra was worse—still damp, its thin padding stained, clinging uncomfortably over her aching nipples. She unhooked it and tossed both onto the bench beside her.

She turned toward her locker and popped it open.

A sigh escaped her lips.

The only thing inside was an old, narrow-shouldered navy sport coat—a pre-pregnancy relic she’d kept around for quick meetings. It had been snug before her body changed. Now?

She held it up. The single front button might close over her chest. Might. But it would be tight—straining, obvious—and any kind of bra underneath would just make it worse. Her breasts were larger now, heavier, and without support, they’d sit high and full against the thin lining of the blazer. Even worse, the inner fabric wasn’t soft. It would rub, tease, every time she moved.

Still… it was better than walking around in wet cotton.

She glanced to the side and spotted the lost-and-found bin beneath the sink. Maybe, just maybe…

She dug through it quickly. Most of the contents were junk. A few too-small yoga pants, a towel that smelled vaguely of eucalyptus, and—

A neon pink tank top, ultra thin, low cut, with racerback straps and no structure. She held it up. It was basically translucent. And it clashed violently with the blazer.

Wearing it with the blazer would look absurd. Wearing it alone was out of the question unless she wanted to turn the entire office into a one-woman show.

She turned back to her soiled clothes, biting her lip.

She could rinse the shirt and bra in the sink. They’d look cleaner. But the bra padding would stay soaked, and she couldn’t wear it dripping. Which left her with one option: wear the rinsed shirt only, no bra. Wet, white, clinging.

She checked the mirror again. Her breasts were flushed, her nipples still peaked and visible, the cool air turning the exposed skin tight and tender. Anything she wore would show something.

Her phone buzzed.

Meeting with Martin – 1:30pm.

She glanced at the clock.

Shit.

No time.

She had to choose—now.