She asks him

The cursor blinked at her in steady rhythm.

Emily had written the same sentence three different ways. Deleted them all. Tried a new paragraph. Deleted that too. The Q3 Budget doc was still blank.

She sat back in her chair, thumb tapping lightly against the side of her coffee mug.

That damn photo.

Or… the two of them.

She hadn’t looked at them since Saturday night, but she could still remember them clearly—how she looked, what she’d felt as she stood in front of the mirror, freshly showered and half-defiant. The lift of her breasts. The angle of her hips. The soft gleam of water still clinging to her skin. Not staged. Not seductive, exactly. Just… intentional.

And all she’d gotten in return?

Thank you.

It was the right answer. She knew that.

But it had settled in her brain like a loose thread. A quiet, unanswered vibration.

She glanced at her phone on the desk beside her.

Lit it up with a fingertip.

Will’s name stared back.

No message since.

No reaction.

No anything.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. Then she tapped, opened the message thread. Re-read what little there was.

Thank you.

Her fingers hesitated.

Then typed.

Did you like them?

Simple. Four words.

No emoji. No teasing. No apology.

She stared at the screen for a full thirty seconds before hitting send.

Then she set the phone down carefully beside her mouse pad, like it might detonate.

She didn’t breathe.

Didn’t move.

Just watched the phone screen and tried to tell herself she didn’t care what came next.