Linen closet

Emily reached for the doorknob with one hand, red solo cup still clutched in the other. She hadn’t even realized she’d finished the drink—it felt like just a sip ago—but the cup was empty, the sticky-slick weight of it betraying nothing. Her head swam faintly. The hallway behind her blurred a little at the edges.

She pushed open the door, expecting a bedroom, maybe Mickey’s.

But instead: shelves. Stacks of mismatched linens, paper towel rolls, a vacuum hose curled like a sleeping serpent. The closet was four feet deep, maybe three wide, but a third of that was eaten up by storage. She muttered, “Not it,” and started to turn—

—and a body crashed in behind her.

“Shit, sorry—!”

The door slammed. A blunt clap of wood and drywall.

Emily flinched, stumbling farther in. The shelves jabbed at her hip.

And then she froze.

There was someone behind her. She could feel him, not just proximity but heat—skin-warm, ****-slicked, massive. His chest brushed her back. Bare skin. His breath stirred the hairs at her neck. He’d sealed off the space entirely.

He shifted. A muttered curse. “Tried to duck in to piss,” he mumbled, voice slurred. “Didn’t know anyone was—fuck—sorry.”

She heard him fumble for the knob behind his back, then:

Crack.

A jagged, plasticky snap.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned.

Emily twisted, heartbeat kicking faster now. He held up the doorknob in his hand—cleanly snapped from the shaft.

“Don’t panic,” he added quickly. “Just came off. Cheap-ass house. Look.”

There was click from above as a pull chain for an overhead was tugged and lit up the space.

She stared at the broken knob, the gleam of sweat at his collarbone, the way he had to keep his elbow high just to avoid crowding her worse. Every time he shifted, something touched her—his stomach, his chest, his thighs. He was everywhere.

“Closet’s too damn small,” he said, voice almost apologetic, like he wanted to laugh but wasn’t sure if he should. “I’ll stay back, alright? No funny stuff.”

He tried—he really did. Braced one hand on a shelf to lean his bulk away from her, but the geometry didn’t cooperate. With three feet of width and nearly a foot of it eaten by clutter, every breath brought her back brushing his ribs, or her backside grazing his jeans. The air was muggy with heat and body and old towels.

“You’re not exactly built for this,” she murmured, trying to keep it light.

He laughed—low, short, a breath through his nose. “That’s what she said,” he replied automatically, then winced at himself. “Sorry. Bad timing.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Emily could feel her pulse in her temples. Her shirt was sticking to her back. Her body was buzzing—residual heat from the party, from the drink, from the overwhelming press of him at her spine. She still held the cup, the red plastic warm from her hand, useless now.

“You alright?” he asked suddenly. His voice had dropped half a register. “You’re real quiet.”

“Just thinking,” she said.

“About?”

“Getting out of here.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. Probably smart.”

But he didn’t move.

Neither did she.

The hand braced on the shelf stayed where it was. The other—she hadn’t even noticed when it crept back to her hip—hovered again now. Just the gentlest touch. Fingertips grazing denim. Barely there.

“I—” she started.

“You feel good,” he said quietly.

Emily went still.

He didn’t take his hand off her hip.

“Soft,” he said. “Hot.”

“Don’t,” she said, sharper now. But it came out hoarse. Too soft.

His hand didn’t grip. It just stayed.

“You want me to stop?”

Silence stretched.

She didn’t answer.

He shifted forward slightly. His chest met her back. His forearm brushed her belly. His voice was right at her ear now, low and warm and thick.

“You sure?” he asked again, his fingers sliding just a little. Testing.