Oh no it's a hot day at the hospital

They sat in the cooling car for another minute, neither of them quite ready to take the final steps that would put them in Zoe's presence with no escape route available. The garage around them was quiet except for the distant sound of another car's engine echoing off concrete, and Samantha focused on that sound rather than the rapid beating of her own heart.

"Okay," Harry said finally, turning to face her in the driver's seat. "Last reminders before we go in. Don't hug Zoe too tightly. Actually, avoid hugging her at all if you can manage it."

"Obviously. I mean, what could go wrong?" Samantha asked playfully.

"Well," Harry said, his lips quirking despite the seriousness of the situation, "she might recognize the feel of her own boobs pressed against her. Like, breast recognition. Is that a thing? Can people identify their own boobs by touch?"

The question was so absurd that Samantha felt laughter bubbling up in her chest, inappropriate and unstoppable. "Breast recognition," she repeated, and then she was giggling, her hands pressed to her face as the stress of the past hour found release in semi-hysterical amusement. "Oh my god. Harry. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"But is it wrong?" Harry insisted, and now he was grinning too, caught up in the infectious humor of their ridiculous situation. "What if she hugs you and thinks, 'hey, these feel familiar'?"

"Yeah, like she’d just immediately think ‘These feel familiar because they're MY EXACT TITS just on someone else's body’! Or, ‘Hey, I know those tits!’, as if like… of COURSE that’s a thing." Samantha managed between giggles. "Oh fuck. We're so screwed."

"It's going to work," Harry said, but he was laughing now too, the kind of laughter that comes from being overtired and overstressed and facing something so absurd that the only response is to laugh or cry. "We just need to—to maintain distance. Physical and emotional distance. You're like… Switzerland. Neutral and uninvolved and definitely not wearing stolen breasts."

That set Samantha off again, and they spent another minute just laughing together in the car, their anxiety temporarily overwhelmed by the sheer ridiculousness of everything. When they finally calmed down, both of them were wiping tears from their eyes and Samantha's stomach hurt from the exertion.

"Okay," Samantha said, taking a deep breath. "Okay. I can do this. Bloated and period-y Sam."

"Bloated and period-y Sam," Harry agreed. "Let's go."

They exited the car and the air-conditioned comfort immediately gave way to the summer heat that had seeped into the parking garage despite the shade. It wasn't as hot as street level would be, but it was still at least eighty degrees, and Samantha felt sweat prickling at her hairline within seconds. The hoodie that had seemed like a necessary evil in their apartment now felt like a **** device, the thick fabric trapping heat against her already uncomfortable compression binding.

"It's so hot," Samantha complained, tugging at the neckline of the hoodie in a futile attempt to get more air circulation. "Why is it this hot? It's a parking garage. It's supposed to be cool underground."

"Don’t ask me, this is your city. Are summers not usually like this here?" Harry asked rhetorically, his own shirt already showing dark spots under his arms where sweat was beginning to soak through. "Come on, the hospital will have AC."

They walked toward the elevator bank that would take them up to the main hospital entrance, their footsteps echoing in the concrete space. Samantha was hyper-aware of every sensation—the sweat building under the athletic tape, the way her compressed breasts shifted slightly with each step despite the binding, the heat radiating from her torso like she'd wrapped herself in an electric blanket. The hoodie's fabric combined with the tape chafed against her nipples, and she had to resist the urge to adjust herself because that would only draw more attention.

"How much farther?" Samantha asked, even though they could see the elevators just twenty feet ahead.

"Almost there," Harry assured her, his hand finding the small of her back in a supportive gesture that somehow made the heat more bearable.

They reached the elevator and Harry pressed the call button. The wait felt eternal, giving Samantha time to second-guess every decision that had led to this moment. They should have stayed home. They should have called Zoe with an excuse. They should have waited for the transformation to fade before attempting to leave the apartment. But no—Tina was hurt, Tina was in a hospital bed, and Samantha couldn't not be there for her friend regardless of the personal risk involved.

The elevator arrived with a cheerful ding that felt inappropriate given the circumstances. They stepped inside and Harry pressed the button for the main floor. As the doors slid closed, Samantha caught her reflection in the polished metal surface—a distorted, funhouse version of herself that made her look even more suspicious, her bulky hoodie obvious and her face flushed with heat and anxiety.

"I look guilty," Samantha said, staring at her warped reflection. "I look like I'm about to confess to a crime."

"You look fine," Harry lied. "Just hot. Which you are, because you're wearing a winter hoodie in summer. Totally reasonable for someone who's bloated and uncomfortable."

The elevator rose smoothly, and Samantha felt her stomach drop not from the motion but from the knowledge that they were seconds away from entering the hospital proper, from being in public where anyone could see them and potentially question why she looked like she was trying to hide something under her clothes. The doors opened onto the main entrance level, and a wall of heat hit them immediately.

"What the fuck," Samantha breathed, stepping out into the hospital lobby. "Where's the AC? Why isn't there AC?"

The hospital's air conditioning was running—she could feel the slight movement of air from the vents above—but it was clearly struggling to keep up with the summer heat and the constant opening of automatic doors that let in waves of hot air from outside. The temperature inside was probably a reasonable seventy-five degrees, comfortable for most people wearing normal summer clothing.

For Samantha, dressed in layers of compression and a heavy hoodie, it felt like walking into a sauna.

Sweat was breaking out across her body within seconds, running down her back and pooling under her breasts where the tape trapped moisture against her skin. Her face felt flushed and overheated, and she could feel her hair starting to stick to the back of her neck. The discomfort that had been merely annoying in the car became almost unbearable in the hospital, and she had to stop herself from yanking off the hoodie right there in the lobby.

"I'm dying," Samantha said, fanning herself with one hand while trying to maintain her arms-crossed posture. "Harry, I'm literally dying. I'm going to have heat stroke before we even get to Tina's room."

"You're not dying," Harry said, though he looked concerned as he took in her flushed face and the sweat beginning to darken the neckline of the hoodie. "Just... try to think cool thoughts. We'll be in and out quickly."

Samantha closed her eyes, swaying slightly. "Cool thoughts," she whispered, sweat trickling down her temples. Her hand fluttered vaguely toward her chest before she caught herself. "God, I'm picturing myself in Antarctica. Naked. With penguins. And these... these ridiculous stolen melons freezing solid." A delirious giggle escaped her lips.

They approached the reception desk where a tired-looking woman in scrubs was typing something into a computer. She glanced up as they arrived, her eyes immediately going to Samantha's focused face with its unmistakable flush of overheating while whispering something about antarctica.

"You okay, honey?" the receptionist asked. "You look like you might need to sit down."

"I'm fine," Samantha lied, gripping the edge of the reception desk for support. "Just visiting a friend. Tina Reeves, room 412?"

The receptionist's expression softened with sympathy. "Oh, the poor bike accident girl. Yeah, she's on the fourth floor. Here, let me print you visitor badges."

She typed something, and two stickers emerged from a small printer beside her keyboard. The receptionist peeled off the backing and handed them across the desk. "Just stick these somewhere visible and you're good to go. Elevators are down the hall to your left."

"Thank you," Samantha managed, accepting the badges. She looked down at the sticky visitor pass and experienced a moment of surreal disorientation—she was supposed to put this on her chest, press it against the compressed mass of Zoe's breasts that shouldn't exist on her body. The mundane action felt bizarre and wrong, like reality was glitching around her.

Harry took his badge and stuck it to his shirt just below his collar. Samantha did the same, pressing the sticker carefully to the hoodie and feeling the squish of compressed breast tissue beneath the layers of fabric and tape. The sensation was alien and arousing and terrifying all at once—foreign flesh that responded to touch like it was part of her body because, for the next few hours at least, it was.

"Fourth floor," Harry said, already moving toward the elevators. "Come on."

Samantha followed, each step feeling heavier than the last as sweat continued to pour down her face and back. She could feel moisture soaking through the athletic tape now, the adhesive beginning to loosen as her skin became slick with perspiration. This was a disaster. They were walking into a situation where she'd be face-to-face with Zoe while literally melting inside her disguise, and there was nothing she could do about it except pray that her friend was too worried about Tina to notice anything weird about Samantha's appearance.

They reached the elevator and Harry pressed the call button again. As they waited, Samantha caught sight of her reflection in a nearby window and almost didn't recognize herself. Her face was red and shiny with sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead, and the bulky hoodie made her look like she'd gained thirty pounds. She looked exactly like someone trying desperately to hide something.

"Last chance to turn back," Harry said quietly, though they both knew that wasn't really an option.

"No," Samantha said, squaring her shoulders despite the discomfort. "Tina needs us. Let's do this."

The elevator arrived and they stepped inside, watching the doors slide closed on their escape route. Fourth floor. Room 412.