The hallway

She stands in the humid bathroom, her skin still beaded with water. The towel is gone. The door is cracked. She can hear the low murmur of Joe and Alex's voices from the kitchen, the clink of mugs, the soft hiss of the coffee maker. Her heart pounds against her ribs.

She waits. No footsteps approach. No towel slides under the door. Nothing.

She bites her lip, a nervous flutter racing through her chest. The game she started — walking past them in a small towel — has turned on her. Joe took the towel. He knows she's in here. He wants her to make a choice.

After a long moment, she presses her palm flat against the door and pushes it open, stepping out barefoot onto the cool hallway floor. Her skin is damp, still warm from the shower. She holds one arm across her chest, hand covering her breast, her other hand hovering low near her hip, not quite covering everything.

She pads quietly toward the kitchen, her wet hair dripping onto her shoulders, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the wood. When she reaches the doorway, she stops, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide.

"Joe..." she says, her voice soft and hesitant, almost a whisper. "I couldn't find my towel. I didn't know what to do."

She stands there, vulnerable and bare, her gaze flickering between Joe and Alex, her breath shallow.

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