Chapter 2: It's getting hot
The emergency light under the door cast long, distorted shadows across the towering shelves of the storage room, turning boxes of gauze and IV tubing into hulking, indistinct shapes. The air, thick with the lingering tang of antiseptic and dust, had grown stiflingly warm since the AC hadn’t kicked back on. Sweat prickled at Jonas’s hairline, trickling down his temple near the arm of his glasses. Rita sat beside him, her shoulder pressed lightly against his, her legs drawn up. The initial panic had subsided, replaced by a low hum of trapped discomfort.
“Remember Mr. Henderson last week?” Rita’s voice was quieter now, less bubbly, but still held a thread of her usual warmth. She shifted, the fabric of her scrubs whispering against the floor. “Threw his pudding cup because it wasn’t vanilla? Like, sir, you’re seventy-two, not two.”
Jonas chuckled, the sound dry in the heavy air. “The entitlement of some people. Meanwhile, Mrs. Gable in 304 apologizes for buzzing us when her oxygen tube kinks.” He adjusted his glasses. “World’s full of extremes.”
“It really is.” Rita fell silent for a moment, the hum of the distant hospital generators filling the space. The heat pressed in. Jonas could feel the warmth radiating from her small frame beside him. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
“Think they’ve even noticed we’re missing?” Rita asked after a while, her voice small. “Or are they just assuming we’re finally… I dunno… doing inventory with extreme prejudice?”
Jonas snorted. “At this point, I’d welcome the extreme prejudice. Anything’s better than slow roasting.” He nudged her gently with his elbow. “They’ll notice. Shift change chaos will hit eventually. Someone will need a specific size catheter or a box of tongue depressors.”
She leaned her head back against the door with a soft thud. “True. Maybe we’ll get lucky and Dr. Armitage will need that weird retractor he only uses once a year. The one that lives back here.”
They lapsed back into a companionable, sweaty silence. The shadows seemed to deepen. Jonas could hear Rita’s slightly quickened breathing beside him, a counterpoint to the building’s mechanical groan. He watched a bead of sweat trace a path down her neck, disappearing into the collar of her scrubs.
Then, her voice cut through the thick air, hesitant but determined. “Jonas?”
“Yeah, Rita?”
A pause. He could almost feel her gathering courage. “That… thing you mentioned before? About you and Mary?” She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, on the shadowed shelves opposite. “The… open part?” She swallowed. “How does that… I mean, what’s that even like?”
Jonas turned his head slightly to look at her profile in the dim light. Her expression was serious, her usual brightness dimmed by genuine, uncomfortable curiosity. He’d been open about his relationship structure in passing, a casual mention during a coffee break months ago, never expecting this kind of direct, trapped-in-a-storage-room interrogation.
He took a slow breath. The heat felt suddenly more intense. “Honestly?” he started, keeping his tone level, conversational. “It’s just… how we are. How we’ve always been. Mary’s... You know? She needs… space. Connection. Different perspectives. So do I, in a different way.” He adjusted his glasses again, a nervous tic. “It’s not about something missing between us. It’s about… expanding the view, I guess. More life, more experiences. With honesty. Always honesty.”
Rita was silent, processing. The air felt charged. “But… doesn’t it hurt?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Knowing she’s with someone else? Or… you being with someone else? Doesn’t it feel… I don’t know… bad?”
Jonas considered. “Jealousy? Sure, it happens. It’s human. But we talk about it. It’s like… acknowledging a storm cloud. You see it, you name it, you figure out why it’s there, and usually, it passes. The foundation is solid. The trust is absolute.” He paused. “It takes work. A lot of talking. A lot of checking in. It’s not for everyone. Honestly, most people can’t handle it.” He chuckled softly, without humor. “Hell, sometimes we barely handle it.”
Rita finally turned her head to look at him. Her big brown eyes were wide, searching his face in the gloom. Her expression was unreadable – a mix of fascination, confusion, and something else… maybe empathy? The faint light caught the sheen of sweat on her upper lip. “My ex,” she said quietly, her voice tight. “He… he freaked out if I even talked to another guy. Like, full-on interrogation. Texts, calls… suffocating.” She looked down, picking at a loose thread on her scrub pants. “Being told who I could talk to, how I should dress… it felt like… like being slowly erased.” She shuddered, a small movement that pressed her shoulder more firmly against his for a second. “So… freedom. Absolute freedom. And trust.” She looked back up, meeting his gaze directly. Her eyes glistened slightly. “That sounds… terrifying. And kind of… amazing.”
The air crackled. The heat wasn’t just from the broken AC anymore. Jonas was acutely aware of the point where her shoulder met his arm, the warmth radiating from her. Her scent – a mix of hospital soap, sweat, and something uniquely Rita, floral and clean – filled his senses. Her gaze held his, intense and unwavering. The storage room, the shadows, the stifling atmosphere seemed to shrink, pressing them closer.
He saw her breath catch. Saw the slight tremor in her lower lip. He felt the magnetic pull, the years of easy flirting suddenly condensing into this dense, heavy moment. His own pulse thudded in his ears. Her eyes flickered down to his mouth, just for a fraction of a second.
The air crackled, thick with heat and something else entirely. Jonas felt the phantom touch of her gaze on his lips like a physical thing. Rita pulled back slightly, breaking the electric tension, but her eyes remained locked on his, wide and impossibly dark in the gloom. "Tell me," she breathed, her voice husky. "Tell me about it. For real."
His throat felt suddenly dry, scratchy. He cleared it, shifting uncomfortably against the door. "About...?"
"The other couple," she pressed, leaning forward again, her petite frame surprisingly intense. Her knee brushed his thigh. "You mentioned experiences. With others. Give me...specifics." A bead of sweat traced the curve of her jaw, glistening in the low light. "What happened?"
Jonas ran a hand over his bald head, adjusting his glasses with the other. Embarrassment warred with a strange, illicit thrill at her directness. "Christ, Rita," he muttered, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "It's... private. Messy."
"Messy is good," she countered instantly, her lips curving into a small, challenging smile. The scent of her – clean sweat, floral soap, and pure her – filled his nostrils. "I want messy. Tell me. Start at the beginning."
He took a shaky breath, the confined space suddenly feeling like a confessional. "Okay. Fine. Last year. Swingers club downtown, niche place Mary found. Met this couple – Ben and Chloe." He paused, glancing away at the towering shelves stacked with sterile supplies, a stark contrast to the memory. "They seemed... normal. Approachable."
Rita inched closer, her shoulder pressing firmly against his arm now, radiating heat. "And?" she prompted, her voice a low murmur near his ear. "What did you do?"
Jonas swallowed. "We talked. Drank overpriced cocktails. Flirted, obviously. Then..." He trailed off, the memory vivid. "They invited us back to their place. Modern loft. Lots of glass." He could feel Rita's focused attention, a palpable force. "We started... slow. All four of us on this huge sectional."
"Slow how?" Rita pressed, her hand landing lightly on his knee. Her touch sent a jolt through him.
"Kissing," he admitted, the word feeling clumsy. "Touching. Over clothes at first. Chloe kissed Mary. I watched." He met Rita's gaze again, seeing the intense curiosity there, the slight parting of her lips. "Then Ben kissed Mary too. While I was with Chloe."
Rita’s fingers tightened slightly on his knee. "What was that like? Watching Mary?"
"Intense," Jonas breathed. "Strange, but... hot. Seeing her react. Seeing him touch her. She looked... free. Powerful." He recalled the sharp pang and then the bloom of arousal that followed. "Chloe was... enthusiastic. Hands everywhere."
"Where?" Rita demanded, her voice dropping to a whisper. Her thumb traced a small circle on his leg. "Be specific, Jonas."
He felt the heat in his face, the familiar embarrassment warring with the undeniable surge of arousal her insistence provoked. "She... uh... she unbuttoned my shirt. Ran her hands over my chest. Then down." He hesitated. "She palmed me through my pants. Hard. Right there, while Ben had his hand up Mary's skirt." The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. "Mary moaned. Loud. Hearing that... fuck."
Rita’s breathing hitched. She shifted, turning her body more towards him. Her knee pressed higher against his thigh. "Did they take clothes off?"
"Eventually, yeah," Jonas said, emboldened by her reaction, by the flush visible on her chest above her scrub top. "Ben peeled Mary's dress down. Chloe... Christ, Chloe knelt on the rug in front of me. Took my cock out. Just like that." He mimicked the action unconsciously with his hand. "Put her mouth on it. Sucked me hard. Deep."
The humid air clung to Jonas’s skin like a second layer of scrubs. Rita’s eyes were huge in the dim emergency light, fixed on him. He could almost smell the intensity of her curiosity mingling with the scent of hot plastic and dust.
"She just... went for it?" Rita breathed, her voice husky, leaning in fractionally. Her knee pressed warm against his thigh again, a point of contact in the stifling dark. "Kneeling right there?"
"Yeah," Jonas rasped, wiping sweat from his upper lip. The memory felt raw, potent. "While Mary was arching back on that couch, Ben’s fingers inside her." He swallowed, the image vivid. "Chloe knew what she was doing. Focused. Ruthless, almost. Took me deep, held it." He mimicked the motion roughly with his hand. "Mary kept looking over, watching Chloe’s head bob, watching me watch her."
A small, involuntary sound escaped Rita - a gasp caught in her throat. Her gaze dropped briefly to his lap before snapping back to his face, a fierce blush staining her cheeks. "God. And Mary... she was okay? Seeing that?"
"More than okay," Jonas confirmed, the ghost of a strained smile touching his lips. "Seeing me like that... it amplified everything for her. She came hard, right then, Ben’s hand working her." He shifted, the concrete floor unforgiving. "Later, upstairs... Chloe straddled me, rode me slow while Mary watched Ben fuck her from behind." He ran a hand over his bald head, the heat oppressive. "Watching them watch us... it’s a feedback loop. Intense."
Rita was silent for a long moment, absorbing it. The air felt thick enough to choke on. "Feedback loop," she repeated softly, almost to herself. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated despite the low light. She didn’t touch him beyond that persistent, burning point of knee contact.
Rita shuddered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with cold. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her own knees. "Jesus," she breathed. The word hung in the suffocating air. Her eyes searched his face, a maelstrom of fascination, shock, and something hotter swirling in their brown depths. She leaned infinitesimally closer, the heat radiating from her small body palpable. "That’s... insane. Wild. How do you... compartmentalize? After? Doesn't it change things?"
Jonas opened his mouth to answer, to talk about the afterglow, the shared adrenaline, the drive home buzzing with reconnection. But before a word could form, Rita suddenly gasped, a sharp, pained intake of breath.
"God, Jonas," she choked out, her voice strained and tight. She fanned her flushed face weakly with a trembling hand. Her hair clung damply to her temples. "It’s... it’s like an oven in here now. I can't...breathe." Sweat beaded on her upper lip, tracing paths down her neck, soaking the collar of her scrubs. "The air... it's burning." She sagged back heavily against the unyielding door, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before reopening, glazed with discomfort. "How much hotter can it get?"
The emergency light’s bloody smear under the door barely cut through the oppressive blackness. Rita sagged against the unyielding metal, her scrub top clinging like a damp second skin. Sweat plastered stray blonde hairs to her temples and neck. Her breath came in shallow gasps. "Seriously," she rasped, fanning herself weakly with a trembling hand. "I think the AC units are actively plotting our demise. Feels like we're baking inside a giant autoclave."
Jonas wiped perspiration from his own brow, his glasses sliding slightly. The thick air tasted stale, metallic. Every inhale felt like breathing through a warm, damp cloth. He glanced at Rita's silhouette. Even in the near-total dark, he could see the sheen on her skin, the way her damp top outlined the curve of her shoulders, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The sheer physical discomfort was becoming unbearable, a constant thrumming counterpoint to the lingering, illicit charge from their conversation. "It's brutal," he agreed, his voice rough. "Like drowning in warm oil." He shifted, peeling his own damp scrub top away from his back where it stuck. "Look, it's pitch black in here. Nobody's seeing anything." He paused, the suggestion hanging in the stifling air. "Maybe... we ditch the tops? Just for some relief? Throw them off into the void?" He gestured vaguely into the darkness beyond the faint red glow.
Rita’s head turned towards him. Her eyes, wide and luminous in the gloom, searched his face for a long beat. Practicality warred with modesty. The heat won. "God, yes," she breathed, relief flooding her voice. "My skin feels like it's melting." Her hands moved quickly, almost desperately, pulling the soaked blue V-neck top up and over her head. She dropped it beside her with a soft, wet plop on the concrete floor. She sat back, clad only in her pale, practical nursing bra and scrub pants, releasing a shaky sigh. "Oh, wow. Okay. Marginally less like death."
Jonas followed suit, yanking his own top off with a grunt. The immediate rush of marginally cooler air against his bare chest and back was profound, almost dizzying. He tossed his scrubs aside. "See? Instant five-degree drop. Sort of." He leaned back against the door again, the cool metal a shock against his bare shoulders. His gaze, almost instinctively, drifted towards Rita. The dim red glow painted her in chiaroscuro, highlighting the graceful line of her collarbones, the swell of her breasts beneath the plain, light-colored bra. The fabric, damp with sweat, clung, revealing the distinct, firm curves. Christ, he thought, the observation sharp and involuntary. She is stacked. He’d known she was petite, but the generous fullness was unexpectedly pronounced now, unencumbered by the loose scrub top. His eyes, adjusting to the gloom, lingered. The thin bra material hinted at something else – small, distinct circles beneath the fabric near the apex of each curve. Piercings. The detail, intimate and surprising amidst the sterile gloom, lodged itself in his mind. He forced his gaze upwards, back to her face, a flush creeping up his own neck that had nothing to do with the heat.
Rita stretched slightly, arching her back against the door. She turned her head towards him, catching the direction of his gaze just as it flickered away from her chest. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips, visible even in the low light. It wasn’t coy; it was direct, charged. Her voice was low, husky, cutting through the thick silence. "Marginally better, Dr. Evans," she murmured, her eyes holding his, unwavering. "But the view down here…" She let the words hang, a deliberate, unspoken challenge shimmering in the space between them. "It’s getting considerably hotter again. Don’t you think?" Her chest rose and fell deliberately, slowly, the subtle movement amplified by the red-tinged shadows.
The feeble red glow under the door painted sharp angles on Rita’s face, catching the knowing curve of her lip. Jonas felt the flush ignite across his neck, scalding beneath the oppressive heat. His glasses slid down his nose. He fumbled to push them back up, his knuckles brushing damp skin. "Uh, ventilation," he mumbled, voice thick. His gaze darted away, fixing intensely on a shadowed shelf stacked high with urinary catheter boxes. Studying inventory. Definitely. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades.
Rita’s low chuckle vibrated in the stifling air. "Right. Ventilation." She shifted slightly, the damp fabric of her bra straining. The movement deliberately drew his traitorous eyes back for a split second. "Downright scientific observation, Doctor."
The jig was up. Heat flooded Jonas's face, hotter than the room. He cleared his throat, a rough, unconvincing sound. "Look, Rita..." He trailed off. What defense was there against being caught eyeing your half-naked colleague’s piercings in a storage room sauna? He reached for his discarded scrub top, a flimsy shield. "This heat’s making everyone delirious."
"Delirious?" Rita echoed, the word rich with amusement. She leaned closer, her bare arm pressing against his. Her skin was slick, burning. "Or just... observant?" Her breath fanned his shoulder. "Relax, Jonas. It’s just skin. Sweaty, uncomfortable skin." She looked pointedly at his watch. "Speaking of uncomfortable... what is the time? Feels like we’ve been marinating for days."
Grateful for the distraction, Jonas almost fumbled his watch. The digital face glowed brightly in the gloom. "Christ," he breathed, the number punching through his embarrassment. "11:48 PM." He stared at the digits. Shift change felt like a distant mirage. "Eight more hours. Minimum. If they even notice we’re missing before rounds." The reality settled, heavy and suffocating. Trapped. All night. In this oven.
Rita groaned, letting her head thump back against the metal door. "Eight hours? On concrete?" She gestured vaguely at the harsh floor. "My tailbone is already filing a formal complaint." She scanned the oppressive shadows of the towering shelves. "We need a better plan than just wilting." Her eyes narrowed, assessing the supplies with a nurse’s practicality. "Those sterile procedure packs? Big ones. The plastic wrapping is waterproof. They’re thick." She pointed towards a lower shelf stacked with large, flat packages. "And the gauze rolls? We could make some seriously lumpy pillows."
Relief washed over Jonas, instantly replacing the awkwardness with purpose. Action. "Sterile field pads. Perfect." He pushed himself up, joints protesting. The air felt marginally cooler away from the floor. "Let's raid the linen section." He moved cautiously down the narrow aisle, the red light painting eerie stripes on his bare back. He located the shelf, stacked high with large, sealed plastic packs containing thick, absorbent blue pads. "Jackpot." He grabbed two hefty packs. "Should be relatively cushioned."
Rita joined him, her small form navigating the tight space. She reached for a box of large gauze rolls, the size used for packing major wounds. "Fluff potential." She hugged several rolls to her chest. "Better than concrete vertebrae." Her gaze swept the shelves again. "Those isolation gowns? The blue disposable ones? Could be makeshift blankets. Not exactly plush, but better than hypothermia if this damned AC decides to wake up and blast us."
Jonas nodded, grabbing a bundle of folded gowns. "Smart." They hauled their meager bedding supplies back to their patch of concrete near the door. Jonas ripped open the plastic packs. The sterile pads unfolded into large, thin rectangles. He laid two side-by-side. "Primitive mattress." He arranged the gauze rolls at one end. "Lumpy pillow mountain."
Rita draped several isolation gowns over the pads. "Crinkle central, but it’ll do." She sat down cautiously on the makeshift bed, testing it. "Oh, God. It's actually... soft. Comparatively." She sank back with a sigh, arranging a gown over her legs. The thin blue plastic rustled loudly. The red light caught the sheen of sweat on her collarbones, the curve of her hip where her scrub pants rode low.
Jonas settled beside her, the plastic pad yielding slightly. The space was tight. Their bare shoulders touched. He felt the heat radiating from her skin, distinct and potent. He pulled an isolation gown over himself, the crinkling sound absurdly loud. The red glow painted the ceiling above the shelves, a hellish checkerboard. He stared up, counting imaginary tiles. Exhaustion warred with the relentless awareness of the woman lying inches away, her breathing a soft counterpoint to the building’s distant hum. Eight hours. In the dark. Beside Rita. The air crackled, thick with heat and unfinished tension. He closed his eyes, but the image of her silhouette against the red light, the faint shapes beneath thin fabric, lingered. Sleep felt impossible. The crinkling gowns sounded like thunder in the silence.