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I went upstairs two at a time, locked myself into Room 214 and chained the door, like she was a burglar. Then I got in the shower and stood there until the water ran lukewarm.
It didn’t help. Every time I shut my eyes I felt her weight again. The knee. The ponytail. The way she’d looked down at me and breathed, “One.”
I towelled off, pulled on an old Calloway Digital charity-run T-shirt and nothing else, and sat on the bed with my phone. I scrolled through a draft email to HR about Kat’s conduct, which I’d been writing in my head for two years. I couldn’t think of a single thing she’d done wrong tonight except being unbearably, unfairly hot.
A knock on the door.
Three slow raps, the kind that sound like a smirk.
“Dani,” said a voice through the wood. Low, a bit rough, minus its usual swagger. “I know you’re in there. I can see your light under the door.”
I didn’t move.
“I brought wine,” Kat said. “And I’m not here to win anything. I wanted to say that was out of order, in front of everyone. And that I’m sorry. And that I’d like to say it to your face rather than your door.”
I looked down at my bare legs. At the chain. At the T-shirt that barely covered my arse.
On the other side of the door, I heard her slide down the wood and sit.