She gets turned around

Emily’s muscles hummed with the warm ache of exertion. Her chest was sore—not just from the milk, but from real effort, from the rare thrill of having pushed her body again. She hadn’t felt this kind of fatigue since before Chloe was born, and something about it settled deeply into her shoulders like satisfaction.

The women’s locker room had been nearly empty when she arrived, and she’d been too distracted by her own thoughts—by the buzz of attention, by her body’s sharp awareness of every glance, every damp spot under her bra—to pay close attention as she made her way back.

She followed the signs she thought led back to the showers, towel tucked under one arm, earbuds already out, mind half-focused on whether her sitter might text her early.

The locker room she entered was quiet. No chatter, no blow dryers running. She barely noticed. The space was clean, neutral, tiled. Rows of individual shower cubicles lined the back wall, each one full-size, enclosed top to bottom with heavy privacy curtains. No shared corners. No reflective walls. No chance of being accidentally seen.

She slipped into the last one at the end, hung her towel, and peeled out of her clothes.

The sports bra came off slowly—milk-warm breasts heavy and sore, the fabric slightly damp where she’d begun to leak. She hissed quietly as the elastic pulled free, baring the tight swell of her nipples. Her tank top and leggings followed, and a moment later, she stepped into the shower and turned on the spray.

The hot water hit her like a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She let it run down her back, over her breasts, thighs, everything. Soap slicked her skin, washing away the salt of her effort and something more subtle—tension. Pressure. The constant hum of being needed, seen, judged, missed. Here, under the water, she was alone.

Until she wasn’t.

She didn’t hear the door open at first. But then—

Footsteps. Heavier than she expected.

Voices.

Male voices.

Laughter. The snap of a towel. The slamming of a locker door.

Emily froze.

No. No, that wasn’t right.

She pressed a hand to the tiled wall, heartbeat pounding.

The voices grew louder. One of them turned on the shower across the row. She heard the rhythm of water hitting skin, a grunt, someone coughing.

Men.

She was in the men’s locker room. In the showers.

Naked.

Her breath hitched. Her heart was thudding in her chest, in her throat, in her wrists.

But no one had opened her curtain.

She was in a full-size cubicle. Covered. Hidden.

Unless someone pulled the curtain back—

Emily flattened herself against the far wall of the stall, breathing shallow, skin slick with water. Her arms crossed automatically over her breasts, nipples stiff from more than just the water now. Her thighs clenched. Every inch of her skin was alert, sensitive, exposed under the idea of being discovered.

She stayed still. Waiting.

No one had said anything.

No one had knocked.

Yet.