It’s Megan, looking for her bag

"It’s Megan," her voice booms from the hallway, sounding far less nervous than she had been this morning.
"I know you’ve got my bag. I've got an AirTag in there, and my phone says you’ve got it.
Open up."

Panic surges through you, a shock that doesn't kill the heat between your legs.
Your heart is drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs, and your brain is scrambling for a plausible explanation while your body remains traitorously aroused.

"Eh, coming! Just a sec!" you yell back, your voice cracking slightly.

You slam the laptop shut, the abrupt silence of the room amplifying the clumsy *clink-clank* of the hoof-boots as you scramble to pull your pants up.
You stuff your erection down the front of your trousers, praying the fabric is thick enough to hide the obvious evidence of your little session.

You look down at the boots, then at the door, then back at the boots. There is no world where this looks normal.

You can't exactly tell the 6'6" volleyball star that you were using her gear to get off to a video of a ponygirl.

Desperation leads you to the only excuse you can think of: curiosity. You decide to lean into the "experiment" angle, hoping she's laid-back enough to find it funny rather than creepy.
You take a deep breath, trying to steady your shaking hands, and shuffle toward the door with a heavy, metallic gait.

When you open the door Megan is there, her height even more imposing in the narrow hallway. She's staring down at your feet with a look of absolute bewilderment, her blue eyes darting from the leather boots to your flushed face.

The silence stretches for a few agonizing seconds, the tension in the air thick enough to touch. You offer a weak, sheepish grin, hoping the sheer absurdity of the situation will save you from the horror of the truth.

"Look, I was just... checking?" you stammer, trying to sound casual while your heart hammers against your ribs.
You let out a nervous chuckle, gesturing vaguely toward the boots.
"You know, like a Cinderella story? I found the glass slipper—well, the hoof—and I wanted to see if it actually fit anyone."

It’s a terrible joke, and the way you're standing, practically perched on your toes in her gear, makes the line a disaster.

Megan doesn't laugh.

Instead, she crosses her arms, her expression shifting from confusion to a sharp, simmering irritation. She doesn't seem amused by your "experiment" or the fairy tale comparison; if anything, the sight of you in her gear seems to have triggered something commanding in her.

"You've got to be kidding me," she says, her voice dropping an octave, sounding far more assertive than the panicked girl you saw on the bus.
"You put them on?”

Despite her anger, she doesn't step back.

She looms over you, her presence filling the doorway, and you realize with a jolt of adrenaline that you are not only a bit scared of her, but you're also captivated.

She glances past you into the room, her gaze lingering on the closed laptop and the general state of chaos on your bed.
A small, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of her lips.