Try to keep the conversation fully professional

Emily walked down the hallway toward HR with the steady, purposeful gait of someone pretending she wasn’t hyper-aware of every bounce and shift in her chest.

The blazer strained with every step.

The inner lining dragged across her bare nipples with maddening precision.

She kept her eyes ahead, face neutral, back straight—her mother would’ve called it her “don’t fuck with me” walk. She used to reserve it for rude store clerks and passive-aggressive in-laws. Today it was for Martin Belkin.

She reached the frosted glass door at the end of the hallway. Human Resources – Authorized Personnel Only. His name was taped on a small plaque just below the door handle.

She knocked twice and let herself in without waiting for a response.

“Emily! Hey—” Martin stood abruptly, startled, already pushing his rolling chair back from the desk. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it after lunch. You’re right on time.”

He gave her that oily little grin he always wore when he thought he was being charming. His eyes flicked down for just a split-second—fast, but not fast enough to go unnoticed.

Emily walked straight to the chair across from his desk and sat before he could make a comment. She crossed one leg over the other, spine tall, face unreadable.

“I figured I should get the paperwork out of the way now,” she said. “While the baby isn’t screaming in the background.”

Martin chuckled and opened a thin manila folder in front of him. “Right, right—first day back, big adjustment. You look—” He paused. “Well, like you’ve bounced back pretty fast.”

She didn’t answer. Just raised a brow.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway. Let’s get through this stuff.”

He went over basic forms first—tax withholding, PTO recalculations, updated emergency contacts. Emily signed each one with quick, efficient pen strokes, barely glancing at the fine print.

Martin seemed distracted.

He kept shifting in his seat, watching her hand as she signed, occasionally darting his eyes toward her chest when he thought she wasn’t looking. She didn’t mention it. She didn’t react. She kept the tone brisk, her eyes on the paperwork.

“Next is the post-leave performance plan,” he said, sliding another form across the desk. “We’re required to document re-entry expectations for employees after extended absence. Usually just a formality.”

She took the paper and leaned forward.

That was all it took.

Pop.

The sound was sharp and sudden—barely louder than a pen click, but distinct enough to cut the air.

Something snapped.

The single overworked button of her blazer, the one that had held firm through her march down the hallway and half an hour of seated negotiation, finally gave up. It launched like a cork from a bottle—straight across the desk—and struck Martin dead center in the forehead.

He flinched.

“Ow—what the—?”

But he didn’t reach for his head.

Because the blazer had burst open.

The parted fabric framed the exposed upper swell of Emily’s breasts, pushed high, full, round—and entirely bare beneath. The inner lining of the jacket had shifted with the release, leaving nothing to obscure her.

Her nipples were flushed red, achingly stiff, clearly visible in the cold air. The soft skin around them looked overstimulated, rubbed raw from the friction of the coarse lining.

Martin stared. Dumbly. Utterly still.

Not at the button that had hit him. At her chest.

Emily didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her breath caught behind her teeth, heart pounding, a flush rising in her face.

He licked his lips once.

Then blinked. Hard.