Chapter 2: The Shower Aftermath
The water was too hot. It needled Lena’s skin a bright, punishing pink, but she didn’t turn the dial. The heat was a purge, or an attempt at one. Steam fogged the scratched glass of the shower stall, clotting the air with the clean, cheap scent of citrus body wash. She braced one palm flat against the cool tile, closing her eyes. The phantom pressure of Jordan’s thumb on the curve of her hip bloomed there again, a brand beneath the spray.
It had been hours, but her skin remembered. The memory had a texture: deliberate, slow, unquestionably intentional. It replayed against the backs of her eyelids alongside other moments, a silent, shameful film reel. Jordan’s knuckles brushing her spine as she fumbled with the knots. The full, warm weight of Jordan’s hand settling on her bare waist, holding her. The look in those gray-blue eyes—not neutral, not professional, but knowing—as she’d said, “The fabric catches your light perfectly.”
Lena’s breath hitched now, alone in the steam, exactly as it had then. She pressed her forehead to the tile. What was wrong with her? It was a fitting. Touches were necessary. Jordan was just… hands-on. Confident. It was how artists were. It didn’t mean anything.
But the lie was as thin as the silver mesh. It dissolved under the scalding water, leaving a raw, thrilling truth she couldn’t yet name. Her body had reacted. A low, deep pulse had started up, unfamiliar and insistent, an ache that had nothing to do with Derek and everything to do with the quiet, focused woman who looked at her as if she were a puzzle to be solved with fingertips, not words.
She remembered their first meeting three weeks ago with a new, painful clarity. She’d been nervous, clutching her portfolio. Jordan had opened the loft door wearing a crisp, white button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing lean forearms dusted with dark hair. Her handshake had been firm, dry, enveloping Lena’s completely. It was a handshake that communicated capability, control. It had made Derek’s habitual, limp grip feel like holding a dead fish. Jordan’s eyes had swept over her, not with a leer, but with an assessment that was somehow more intimate. “Lena. Come in. Let’s see what you’re made of.” She’d said it with a half-smile, and Lena had felt, for the first time, that her body was being read like one of her own fashion sketches—lines, potential, hidden meaning. "Is Jordan a lesbian and maybe secretly liking her? Are those touches really innocent?" she wonders as she felt some strange stirring in her loins.
The bathroom door rattled, breaking the memory. “Lena? You’re going to use all the hot water.” Derek’s voice, muffled and mildly annoyed, came through the steam.
“Almost done,” she called back, her voice strangely tight. She turned the water to cold, gasping as it shocked her system, washing away the pink and the lingering ghost of Jordan’s touch. It didn’t work. The ghost had moved inside.
Wrapped in a towel, she emerged into the humid room. Derek was at the sink, brushing his teeth, wearing his usual slept-in t-shirt and boxers. He spit, wiped his mouth, and his eyes found her in the foggy mirror. “Good session today?” he asked, the question automatic. He’d asked the same thing after every fitting for three weeks.
“Yeah. Productive.” She busied herself with moisturizer, avoiding his reflected gaze.
“She paying you on time for this?” He leaned against the counter, watching her rub lotion into her arms. His gaze was familiar, proprietary. It landed on her, but it didn’t see her. It saw his girlfriend, a pleasant object in a towel.
“Of course she is.” Lena’s reply was sharper than intended. She softened it. “It’s a real collaboration. Her designs are incredible.”
“Uh-huh.” He shrugged, his interest evaporating. “Just making sure you’re not getting taken advantage of. All those hours for some bikinis.” He reached out then, hooking a finger into the towel tucked at her chest. “Let’s see the tan lines from this epic collaboration.”
It was a routine gesture. Playful. Normal. But tonight, it felt like an intrusion. The towel loosened, and he pulled it gently, expecting her to laugh, to swat him away, to let it fall. She froze. Her hand shot up, clamping the terrycloth closed at her throat.
“Don’t,” she said, the word a cold, hard pebble dropped between them.
Derek’s face shifted, surprise melting into defensive confusion. “Whoa. Okay. Sorry.” He held his hands up, backing off a step. “Jeez, Lena. It’s me.”
That’s the problem, a treacherous voice whispered inside her. It’s you. The sheer normalcy of him, the predictable playfulness, felt suddenly suffocating. It highlighted everything that was missing: the electric silence, the deliberate, devastating attention, the feeling of being unraveled and studied under fluorescent lights.
“I’m just tired,” she mumbled, turning away to wrap the towel securely around herself again. “And my skin’s sensitive from the studio lights.”
“Right.” He didn’t believe her. An awkward silence filled the small, steamy room, broken only by the drip of the showerhead. The flickering bulb overhead cast a sickly, intermittent light, making the shadows on his face jump. He looked at her, really looked, for maybe the first time in weeks. “This thing… it’s just a job, right?”
Lena met his eyes in the mirror. Her heart hammered against her ribs. It’s a truth, Jordan’s voice echoed in her head. On the right person, it’s a truth. “It’s a creative partnership,” she said, the label feeling inadequate. “It’s important to me.”
He nodded slowly, a man assessing a problem he couldn’t quite define. “Okay. Well. Don’t work too hard.” He kissed the top of her damp head, a brotherly peck, and left the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Alone again, Lena leaned heavily on the sink, staring at her blurred reflection in the fogged glass. She traced the line of her collarbone, where Jordan’s fingers had adjusted a strap that first day. She saw her own eyes, wide and dark with a confusion that was tipping into something like fear. Fear of herself. Of the wants unspooling inside her, dark and silky as thread from a spool.
She thought of the black neoprene suit hanging on Jordan’s rack. Containment. Power held so tight it becomes a secret. She had barely glanced at it then, but now its image was seared into her mind: severe, architectural, unforgiving. What would it feel like to wear it? To have that strong, unyielding fabric holding her in, shaped by Jordan’s hands, while Jordan’s eyes did that slow, burning travel over her body? The thought pulled a low, soft sound from her throat. Her knees felt weak.
She dressed for bed mechanically, pulling on an old cotton nightshirt. In the bedroom, Derek was already under the covers, scrolling on his phone, the blue glow lighting his placid face. She slid in beside him, the space between them a cool, wide canyon. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her body rigid.
Sleep was impossible. Her mind was a riot of sensation and memory. The scent of salt and cedar. The weight of a palm. The scratch of charcoal on paper. She turned onto her side, facing away from Derek, curling in on herself. As if from a great distance, she felt his hand come to rest on her hip, a habitual, sleepy gesture of possession. His touch was warm, heavy. It felt nothing like Jordan’s. It was a placeholder. A dead weight.
A hot, sudden tear leaked from the corner of her eye, tracking into her hairline. She didn’t make a sound. She was mourning something, but she didn’t know what. The comfort of her old life, perhaps. The simple, unexamined truth of who she was supposed to be.
The days until Thursday stretched, torturous and flat. The boutique where she worked part-time felt like a diorama of a life, a pretty, sterile display. She folded cashmere sweaters, rang up purchases, smiled at customers. Her hands moved automatically while her mind lived in the loft.
She found herself sketching in her lunch breaks, not the boutique’s floaty dresses, but severe, structured cuts. She drew harness-like straps, geometric cutouts, fabric that clung like a second skin. Once, she looked down at the page and realized she’d drawn not a garment on a faceless figure, but the distinct curve of a hip she knew intimately—her own—encased in sharp, black lines. She’d ripped the page out, heart pounding, and shoved it deep into her bag.
Derek tried, in his clumsy way. He suggested their favorite Thai place. He rented a movie she’d wanted to see. He initiated sex. It was familiar, efficient. He touched her with a routine affection, hitting the usual marks, and she’d closed her eyes, her body cooperating out of muscle memory while her mind floated away, up to the dusty sunlight of the studio. She imagined different hands. A different, slower pace. A mouth that wouldn’t just claim, but explore. When it was over, she’d felt emptier than before, a vessel drained of something she couldn’t name. Derek had kissed her shoulder, satisfied, already half-asleep. “Love you, Len.”
“You too,” she’d whispered to the dark, the words ash in her mouth.
Wednesday night, she stood in front of her closet. Jordan’s text had come through earlier, brief and professional: “Black neoprene tomorrow. It’s a complex fit. Wear seamless underwear. See you at 2.” The message had lit up her screen, and Lena’s stomach had performed a slow, exhilarating roll. Seamless underwear. The instruction was clinical, but it felt like a provocation. It meant the suit would be that close. That revealing.
Now, she pushed past her usual jeans and dresses, looking for something to wear to the fitting. Nothing felt right. Everything was either too try-hard or too dismissive. She finally chose simple black leggings and a loose, cream-colored linen shirt. It felt like armor, but permeable. She laid them out on the bed like a sacred vestment.
She couldn’t eat dinner. She picked at a salad while Derek talked about a conflict with his project manager. His words buzzed around her like gnats. All she could think about was neoprene. The way it would feel, cool and substantial at first, then warming to her skin, clinging, compressing. How it would whisper as she moved. What Jordan’s face would look like when she saw her in it.
“You’re not listening,” Derek said, not angrily, just stating a fact.
“I am. Your manager’s being unreasonable.” She stabbed a piece of lettuce. “I’m just distracted. Big fitting tomorrow.”
“The epic black bathing suit,” he said, a faint, teasing edge in his voice. He still didn’t get it. He never would.
“Yes,” she said, meeting his eyes. “The epic black bathing suit.”
Thursday arrived, heavy and bright. The minutes dragged. Lena arrived at the loft fifteen minutes early, her heart a frantic bird in her chest. She stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the industrial windows, gathering herself. The city sounds faded to a dull roar. She climbed the stairs, each step a commitment.
The door was unlocked. She pushed it open.
The studio was different. The main worklights were off. The afternoon sun streamed in, low and honeyed, painting long, dramatic shadows across the concrete floor. Music played softly from a speaker—something instrumental, with a deep, cello-driven throb. Jordan stood with her back to the door at a drafting table under a single anglepoise lamp, studying a large sketch. She wore dark, tailored trousers and a simple black tank top, the muscles in her back and shoulders moving beneath the fabric as she shifted.
“It’s open,” Jordan said without turning, as if she’d sensed Lena’s presence in the shift of the air.
“Hi,” Lena said, her voice barely a whisper. She cleared her throat. “Hi.”
Jordan turned then. Her gaze was immediate, comprehensive. It took in Lena’s clothes, her posture, the nervous clutch of her bag. A slow smile touched her lips, not the knowing one from last time, but something warmer, almost appreciative. “Right on time. Come in. Get the vibe? Different light for a different suit.”
Lena moved into the room, setting her bag down. The scent was the same—salt, latex, cedar—but felt more concentrated, more intentional in the dim, golden light. The black neoprene suit was laid out on the worktable next to the platform, a pool of liquid shadow. It looked even more severe up close. The cut was high-legged, with a plunging V-neck that dove ruthlessly toward the navel. The back, she could see, was a dramatic criss-cross of wide straps. It was a garment that demanded a specific kind of courage.
“Seamless, like I asked?” Jordan said, approaching. She stopped a few feet away, her eyes holding Lena’s.
Lena nodded, unable to speak.
“Good. Go change.” Jordan gestured to the alcove, then turned back to her drafting table, giving a semblance of privacy.
In the small, curtained space, Lena’s fingers fumbled with her clothes. She stepped out of her leggings, shrugged off her shirt. The air was cool on her skin. She looked at the suit, hanging from a hook. It seemed to absorb the faint light. She took a deep, shuddering breath and lifted it.
The neoprene was cool, thick, and surprisingly heavy. She stepped into it, pulling the material up her legs. It clung instantly, a firm, constant pressure from thigh to hip. She worked her arms through the straps, then struggled to pull the stiff fabric over her shoulders and back. She couldn’t reach the closures. The suit hung open, the deep V gaping, the back straps dangling.
“Jordan?” she called, her voice shaky. “I… I can’t get it.”
The curtain rustled. Jordan stepped inside the alcove.
The space was meant for one. With two, it was airless, intimate. Jordan’s presence filled it, the scent of her, the heat from her body. Her eyes swept over Lena, taking in the half-clad state, the neoprene gripping her curves, the open front revealing the sheer black bra she’d worn beneath. Her expression was unreadable, focused.
“Turn around,” Jordan said, her voice a low thrum that vibrated in the cramped space.
Lena turned, presenting the complicated labyrinth of straps to her. She stared at the rough brick wall inches from her face, hearing the rustle of Jordan moving closer. Then, she felt it. Jordan’s hands, cool and sure, smoothing the neoprene across her shoulder blades. Her fingers began to work the closures, one by one. Snap by snap. Each one closed with a soft, definitive click that Lena felt in her bones. The suit tightened incrementally, hugging her ribcage, cinching her waist, the compression both restrictive and strangely liberating.
But it was the touch that undid her. Jordan’s hands were everywhere the suit was. To close a snap at the small of Lena’s back, her fingers slid beneath the waistband, grazing the top of Lena’s buttocks. Lena jolted, a tiny gasp escaping her. Jordan’s hands paused.
“Okay?” she murmured, her breath warm against the nape of Lena’s neck.
Lena nodded, a frantic little movement. Words were impossible.
Jordan continued. Her knuckles dragged along Lena’s spine as she hooked a strap. Her palms flattened against Lena’s shoulder blades, applying pressure to settle the fit. Every touch was methodical, necessary, and utterly devastating. Lena was trembling by the time the last snap clicked shut.
“Now the front,” Jordan said. She didn’t ask Lena to turn. Instead, her hands came around Lena’s sides, sliding over the compressed plane of her stomach, heading for the plunging V. Lena watched, paralyzed, as those capable hands appeared in her field of vision, working on the hidden closure between her breasts. Jordan’s forearms brushed against the sides of Lena’s breasts with each movement. The cello from the speaker seemed to swell, matching the deep, aching throb building low in Lena’s belly.
The final closure sealed the suit. It was fully on. A second skin. Jordan’s hands didn’t leave. They slid up, palms flattening against Lena’s stomach, then her ribcage, smoothing the neoprene, checking the fit. They felt like brands.
“How does it feel?” Jordan’s voice was right by her ear. A whisper.
“Tight,” Lena breathed. “It’s… everywhere.”
“That’s the point.” One of Jordan’s hands slid higher, up the center of Lena’s chest, her thumb brushing against the mound of her breast.