Turn 13 of 228

Check OnlyFans comments during the afternoon break and reply to the tipper. Then go to Diane's office and ask directly what she really wanted to say. After work, go to the bodega and dispensary in the bikini and stock up for another night.

Lena takes her phone into the bathroom during her afternoon break, locks the door, and opens the OnlyFans app. The subscriber count has climbed to sixty-seven since morning. The bathroom photos are blowing up — likes stacked on likes, new comments every few minutes. *Your belly is incredible.* *I can't believe you wore that to work.* *How much more are you going to gain?* She scrolls to the five-dollar tip with the single word — *more* — and types a reply: *I'm not stopping. Subscribe and watch.* She hits send and feels the familiar heat spread through her lower belly. She takes two more bathroom mirror photos — one with her belly pushed forward, one with the bikini top pulled aside — and posts them before she leaves the stall.

She walks back to her desk and sits for ten minutes, staring at Diane's office door across the floor. The alcohol and weed have settled into a slow, warm haze that makes everything feel slightly underwater. She stands up, her belly pressing against the desk edge, and walks across the open floor in the bikini, barefoot, orange dust still on her skin. A few heads track her but nobody speaks. She knocks on Diane's doorframe.

"Got a minute?"

Diane looks up from her laptop. Her eyes move across Lena's body — the bikini, the bare feet, the crumbs, the belly — and her expression cycles through something complicated before settling on professional neutrality.

"Sure. Come in. Sit down."

Lena sits in the chair across from Diane's desk and the chair groans under her weight. She farts — a short, sharp sound that fills the small office — and doesn't acknowledge it. Diane's nostrils flare.

"What did you want to talk about?" Diane says.

"You," Lena says. "You've come to my desk twice now. Both times you looked like you wanted to say something. Both times you didn't. So say it."

Diane is quiet for a long moment. She leans back in her chair and folds her arms.

"Lena, your work has been exceptional. Genuinely exceptional. The Q3 report, the proposal yesterday, the bug catch — I've put your name forward for a lead position."

"But."

"But you're showing up to work in a bikini. Barefoot. Smelling like —" Diane stops herself. She unfolds her arms. Folds them again.

"I've been trying to figure out how to have this conversation without it being a formal write-up, because your performance is so strong that I don't want to lose you. But I can't keep pretending I don't see what I see."

Lena farts again, longer this time, and the sound rumbles through the small office. She watches Diane's face.

"So write me up."

"I don't want to write you up," Diane says. "I want to understand what's going on with you."

Lena stands, her belly at eye level with Diane seated.

"Nothing's going on. I'm comfortable. First time in my life."

She walks out of the office and doesn't look back. Her heart is pounding and the heat between her thighs is intense and she can feel Diane's eyes on her bare back all the way to her desk.

At five o'clock she walks out of the office barefoot in the bikini and takes the bus to the bodega. The afternoon sun catches the oil on her skin and the crumbs still stuck to her belly. The guy behind the counter sees her coming and his face goes through stages of recognition and resignation. She loads up — chips, cookies, donuts, two liters of soda, a bottle of vodka, a twelve-pack of beer — and he rings it all up without speaking. She farts while waiting for her card to process and he doesn't blink. She takes the bags and walks three blocks to the dispensary, barefoot, the bikini strings creaking, and buys the strongest pre-rolls they have. The clerk asks if she's okay and she says she's never been better.