He notices.
Of course he does.
He doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t look at my legs. Doesn’t say anything about how I look.
He disappears down the hallway and comes back a moment later with a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and thick socks folded over one arm.
“Bathroom’s there,” he says, nodding toward a door down the hallway.
I stare at the clothes.
They’re big.
They’re his.
“Thank you,” I manage.
My voice sounds smaller than I want it to.
I take the clothes and slip into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
The mirror over the sink is unforgiving.
My mascara is smudged under my eyes. My lips look swollen from biting them. My cheeks are still flushed from cold and adrenaline.
I look like someone who almost made a mistake she couldn’t undo.
I turn on the faucet and splash cold water over my face. It stings. Good. I scrub at the mascara until it fades and pat my skin dry.
Then I pull the dress over my head quickly, like it might burn if I move too slow.
Cool air brushes over my skin.
For a moment, I just stand there, bare and blinking under the harsh bathroom light.
Then I fold the dress carefully and set it on the counter.
My coat is still at the club. My phone and a little cash are tucked into the pockets of the dress.
I step into the sweatpants. They’re huge. I have to roll the waistband twice. The sweatshirt drops past my hips, sleeves swallowing my hands.
I look smaller in his clothes.
Softer.
Less like the girl in a black dress with pockets.
Less like someone a man like him would look at twice.
The thought lodges in my chest heavier than it should.
And for some reason, I hate that.
I replay the night in my head.
The way he walked in. The way his eyes found me without hesitation.
He recognized me too fast.
