Denise Hopkins

The office gym is supposed to be empty by now, but the last of the after-hours crowd has already filtered out, leaving just the echo of music and the squeak of sneakers on polished wood. Denise tugs lightly at the waistband of her navy shorts as she steps closer, cheeks still flushed from your joint workout, blonde hair falling over her shoulder. She leans against the wall in front of you, blocking the exit with a playful smile that doesn’t quite hide how intently she’s watching your face. “So,” she says, eyes flicking down your body and back up, “are we going to pretend these late-night ‘wellness check-ins’ are strictly professional, or are you finally going to admit why you always stay after with me?”