Favorite Taco Truck

By noon, the office felt smaller.

The buzz of emails, the low thrum of copy machines, the occasional squeak of sneakers down the hall—all of it familiar, all of it oddly distant. Emily had gotten through a few hours of work, mostly without incident. She’d even managed to sit through a check-in meeting with her team, nodding and chiming in just enough to seem engaged, though she was constantly aware of her nursing bra and the faint pressure building in her chest.

Every so often, she’d glanced toward Eric’s door. He never looked directly at her again, but she caught him once in the reflection of his monitor—watching.

The tension wasn’t much. Not yet. But it had roots.

And then there was Martin.

She hadn’t replied again. Not yet. She hadn’t forgotten about the meeting, but she’d be damned if she spent her first lunch back in that cramped HR office, being offered stale donuts and unwanted glances.

She needed real food. Something greasy. Something sharp. Something that didn’t taste like freezer waffles and lukewarm coffee.

So she snuck out.

-0-

The taco truck was parked two blocks down, tucked into a narrow lot between a gas station and a vape shop. It was garish, glorious, and smelled like roasted pork, fried masa, lime, and onion. The same two guys who ran it before were still shouting orders, still moving like clockwork behind the grill.

Emily ordered her usual—al pastor, double tortilla, extra cilantro—and stood off to the side with her elbows tucked in, trying not to draw attention to herself. The heat off the grill, the scent, the sizzle—her mouth watered instantly. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this of all things.

She was mid-bite into the first taco, chin tilted to avoid dripping on her blouse, when someone collided with her from the side.

Not a gentle bump. A full-body, shoulder-first stumble—hard enough to jolt her forward and send half of the taco flying straight down her front.

"Shit!" the man barked, reaching out too late. “Fuck, I wasn’t—damn, I’m so sorry.”

Emily blinked, momentarily frozen. The sharp tang of pico de gallo hit her nose first—then the cool wet splat of tomato, onion, and juice sliding down her shirt.

Her blouse was ruined. White, of course. Of course.

The man was already trying to help, hands reaching forward instinctively. “Jesus, I didn’t see you—there was a curb and my phone—fuck, I’m an idiot.”

He looked up.

Early 30s, maybe. Rough stubble. Disheveled in a way that felt natural—work boots, rolled sleeves, dust on his forearms. Blue collar, definitely. His eyes flicked down and froze on the mess staining her front.

And then—his hand actually moved.

“Let me just—shit—” he mumbled, and his fingers brushed across her chest, trying to swipe off the mess in a panic. It wasn’t groping, not exactly. Just clumsy, rushed, and far too familiar. His knuckles grazed the soft slope of her right breast, and her breath caught.

Her nipples stiffened instantly, painfully, damn it—the kind of hypersensitive response that came with nursing, when even cold air could make her gasp.

And now a stranger’s hand had skimmed her blouse, right across her areola, through damp cotton.

Emily jerked back, eyes wide. Heat flared in her cheeks.

He saw it. Registered something. Didn’t comment.

Instead, he fumbled in his back pocket and thrust a small white card into her hand.

“I’m—really sorry. Here.” He was moving back already. “If you need the shirt replaced or anything—just call. I do contract work. General remodels. Drywall, bathrooms, whatever.”

He glanced once more at the damp, clinging mess on her chest, then turned and bolted through the sidewalk crowd before she could answer.

Emily stared after him, her heart racing. Then down at the card in her hand.

Ty Calderon – Residential General Contractor
Phone: (323) -*

Her shirt clung tightly to her chest, the cooling salsa soaking through the white cotton to reveal the curve of her bra, and beneath it… her still-peaked nipples.

The taco truck sizzled behind her. Somewhere down the street, Ty didn’t look back.

She exhaled through her nose, heat low in her belly now, and not from the food.