Gray Suit Day and a Glance Down
# Gray Suit Day The fluorescent buzz of the office was a white noise backdrop to the real electricity humming through the accounting floor. Paige felt it in her bones, a low, pleasant thrum that had nothing to do with spreadsheets. It was
Chapter 1
The fluorescent buzz of the office was a white noise backdrop to the real electricity humming through the accounting floor. Paige felt it in her bones, a low, pleasant thrum that had nothing to do with spreadsheets. It was Tuesday. **Gray Suit Day.**
She smoothed her hands down the sleek, dusky nylon of her stockings, the whisper of the fabric against her thighs a private promise. The seam was perfectly straight. From her desk, she had a direct sightline to the glass-walled corner office. Morgan was already there, leaning against the doorjamb of her own cubicle, a conspiratorial smirk playing on her lips.
“Eight days on the dot,” Morgan murmured, not taking her eyes off the corridor. “Like clockwork. You’d think a man going through a divorce would let his dry-cleaning schedule slide.”
Paige pretended to study a client file, but her gaze kept drifting. And then, there he was.
Leo moved through the bullpen with a quiet, assured authority that seemed at odds with the gentle weariness she sometimes glimpsed in his blue eyes. The charcoal gray suit was impeccable, hugging the broad line of his shoulders before tapering to a trim waist. And there, the source of the office’s perennial buzz, was the distinct, heavy outline of him against the fine wool of his trousers. The “donkey dick” epithet, born from a drunken Christmas party years ago, floated through her mind, not as gossip, but as a hot, tangible fact. Her mouth went dry.
He stopped by a junior analyst’s desk, offering a pointer, his laugh—a warm, rusty sound—carrying across the room. Paige watched the way his eyes crinkled, the way he ran a hand through his short, dirty-blond hair. A wounded duck, she’d labeled him. Charming, funny, but definitely out of practice. He needed a nudge.
As if feeling the weight of her stare, Leo’s head turned. His gaze found hers, then dipped, just for a fraction of a second, to where her skirt ended and the nylon sheen began on her crossed legs. A faint, almost imperceptible pause hitched his breath. He resumed his conversation, but the connection had been made—a silent, sparking wire stretched between them.
“He looked,” Morgan breathed, materializing at Paige’s desk. “The nylon trap is sprung, girl. Did you see that? He absolutely looked.”
Paige just smiled, tapping her pen against her lips. “The 5:15 train,” she said, her voice low. “He’s on it today. I checked the platform logs.”
The rest of the day was a study in delicious, simmering tension. Leo found reasons to pass by her desk three times. Once, to ask about a project deadline, his knuckles brushing a stray file folder perilously close to her hand. Another time, to commend her on the Fontaine account, his eyes holding hers a beat too long, the blue of them darkening. Each time, his attention was a physical warmth, a spotlight she basked in.
At 5:10, she applied a coat of gloss to her full lips, the brown of her eyes bright with anticipation in her compact mirror. She took the long way to the elevator bank, knowing his route.
The platform was crowded, but she spotted him instantly, a tall, gray-clad figure scanning his phone. She slipped into a space a few feet away, the cool evening air kissing her nyloned calves. The train roared in, and in the shuffle to board, their shoulders brushed.
“Paige,” he said, his voice a pleasant rumble close to her ear as they were herded into the same car. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Small world, Leo,” she replied, leaning against a pole as the train jolted into motion. The movement made her sway toward him. His hand came up, steadying her elbow, the heat of his palm searing through her blazer sleeve. He didn’t let go immediately.
“I, uh… I liked your presentation today,” he said, his thumb making a tiny, unconscious sweep on her arm. “Very sharp.”
“Thank you,” she said, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. The car was packed, their bodies close in the press of commuters. She could smell his cologne, clean and subtle, and something else underneath—just him. “I find inspiration comes easier on certain days of the week.”
A slow, knowing smile touched his lips, chasing some of the tiredness from his face. His eyes danced with a playful light she hadn’t seen in weeks. “Is that so?”
The train slowed for her stop. His hand finally fell from her arm, the absence of his touch feeling colder than the evening air.
“See you tomorrow, Leo,” she said, flashing him a smile over her shoulder as she slipped through the closing doors.
On the platform, she turned. He was still watching her through the glass, his expression unreadable but intensely focused. He gave a small, almost shy wave.
Paige walked home, the memory of his thumb on her arm burning brighter than any streetlamp. The trap wasn’t just set. It was quivering, waiting for the lightest touch to spring. And for the first time, looking back at the receding train, she wondered if he wasn’t just the prey, but a willing participant, walking right into her web, ready to be caught.
Chapter 2
The reconnaissance mission had been a success. By Friday, Paige had a plan. Morgan’s fishing analogy was perfect. She needed to cast the right line.
That morning, she chose a subtle lure: a simple black dress that ended just above the knee, paired with sheer, whisper-thin stockings. No crimson toes today, just the faint, tantalizing sheen of nylon in the right light. She posted a single, carefully curated photo to her own Instagram story just before lunch—a sun-drenched picture of her feet propped on a dock, the water of Montauk in the background. The caption was innocent: “Missing the salt air.” She tagged no one, but she knew the algorithm would do its work for a fellow enthusiast.
The bait took less than an hour to catch. As she was returning from the copier, Leo emerged from a conference room, his phone in hand.
“Paige,” he said, his voice warm. “I didn’t know you were a Montauk person.”
Her heart gave a happy little flip. “Oh, just day trips when I can. It’s my happy place.”
“Mine too,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the wall. He smelled like crisp linen and the faint, clean scent of his skin. “There’s a great little bait shop out past the lighthouse. Best rods.”
“I’m more of a ‘sit on the dock with a book’ kind of girl,” she admitted, letting her eyes hold his. “But I admire the dedication of the real anglers.”
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. “Patience is the whole game. The right lure, the right tension… knowing when to let the line run and when to start reeling it in.” His blue eyes were suddenly very focused on hers, the playful glint from the train platform fully returned. The subtext hung between them, thick and delicious.
“Sounds like you know what you’re doing,” Paige said, her voice dropping slightly.
“I’m remembering,” he murmured. His gaze dipped, just for a second, to where the hem of her dress met her stockinged thighs. “Maybe I could… recommend a good book for the dock. Sometime.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a promise, cast directly back at her.
“I’d like that,” she breathed.
He pushed off the wall, his hand briefly grazing the small of her back as he moved to continue down the hall. The contact was electric, a spark that raced straight to her core. “Have a good weekend, Paige.”
She watched him walk away, the confident set of his shoulders in the crisp white shirt, and let out a slow, shaky breath. The line was running. And she was loving every second of the fight.
Chapter 3
The digital photograph burned itself into Paige’s mind. The grainy resolution couldn’t obscure the sheer, obscene promise of it. Leo, young and lean, his broad shoulders and cocky grin, but all of that was secondary to the impossible weight cradled in that scrap of royal blue fabric. It strained the material, a heavy, distinct curve that hung low and full. *Clean-shaven.* The thought was a lightning strike.
Her sweatpants were around her ankles in one frantic motion. The cool air of her apartment hit her bare skin, but she was already on fire. She sank back into the couch cushions, her phone propped against her knees, that holy grail image glowing up at her.
Her fingers, slick with her own arousal, found her clit in a tight, desperate circle. Her eyes stayed locked on the screen, on the phantom of the man she teased daily. She imagined the girls in the photo, their blatant stares, the envy and raw want she felt echoing across decades. She was one of them now.
“Fuck,” she whispered into the empty room, her hips lifting off the cushion to meet her own touch.
Her phone buzzed again on her thigh. Morgan.
**Morgan:** Told you. A LEGEND. You’re welcome. What are you wearing? 😏
Paige’s laugh was a breathless, needy sound. She typed back with one trembling hand, the other never stopping its relentless, circling rhythm.
**Paige:** 🫦🤤🔥🍆 Was in sweats. Not anymore.
**Morgan:** Atta girl. Live the research. Plan your attack for Monday. Gray Suit Day is coming.
Paige dropped the phone, letting her head fall back. Her fantasy crystallized, sharp and vivid. It wasn’t the teenage swimmer she saw now, but the man in the charcoal suit. She pictured him in her mind’s eye, standing over her desk after everyone had left, his blue eyes dark with an intent he was finally remembering. She imagined the whisper of her nylon stockings as he pushed her skirt up, the sound of his belt buckle clinking, the feel of his hands, big and sure, gripping her hips.
“Leo,” she moaned, her fingers plunging inside herself now, fucking herself in a quick, shallow rhythm that matched the frantic beat of her heart. The image of his speedo-clad bulge melted into the imagined reality of his cock, freed from wool gabardine, thick and heavy in her hand. She could almost feel the hot, smooth skin of it, the way it would pulse against her palm.
She was close, teetering on a peak built from office tension and teenage photographic evidence. Her breaths came in short, sharp gasps. Just a little more. The fantasy shifted: his mouth on her neck, his voice, that warm, rusty rumble, in her ear. *“You’ve been driving me crazy, Paige.”*
A powerful tremor raced through her, but she slammed on the brakes, her whole body tensing. Her fingers stilled, buried deep inside her. A ragged cry of frustration stuck in her throat.
“No,” she panted to the empty room, sweat beading on her brow. “Not yet.”
She withdrew her hand, bringing her glistening fingers to her lips. She tasted herself, eyes closed, the ghost of him everywhere. The climax was a live wire, coiled and ready. But she let it simmer, banking the fire. Monday was Gray Suit Day. The real thing was worth the wait. She smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her full lips. The attack, as Morgan called it, was already planned. And she was more than ready to be conquered.
Chapter 4
Saturday morning was a slow, luxurious burn.
Paige woke with the phantom heat of Leo’s stare still on her skin. She made coffee, the steam curling in the quiet apartment, and found herself scrolling back to the photo Morgan had sent. The youthful arrogance in his grin, the sheer, impossible proof of him in that tight blue fabric… it was a fuel she couldn’t resist.
Her favorite toy—a sleek, purple silicone vibrator—was still in her bedside drawer. She didn’t even make it back to the bed. She leaned against the kitchen counter, one foot propped on a stool, and let the image consume her. With her free hand, she pulled her sleep shorts to the side, exposing herself completely to the cool morning air and her own hungry gaze in the dark window glass.
She flicked the toy on, starting low. The buzz was a direct line to her clit. Her eyes stayed locked on her phone screen. *Leo.*
“You have no idea,” she whispered to his pixelated grin, her hips beginning a slow roll against the vibrating head. “No idea what you do to me.”
Her breath hitched. She imagined it was his hand, big and warm, not cool silicone. That it was his voice in her ear, that warm rusty rumble telling her how fucking good she looked spread out like this for him. The fantasy built fast and filthy—his mouth between her legs, his stubble scraping her inner thighs, that legendary cock finally pushing inside her.
“Fuck… Leo…” she moaned, her fingers tightening on the counter’s edge. The climax gathered like a storm, inevitable and bright. She let it take her, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as her back arched and waves of pleasure crashed through her. She shuddered through it, panting, legs trembling.
Later, flushed and satisfied in yoga class, she couldn’t stop smiling. During partner stretches, she caught Morgan’s eye across the room and mouthed *‘I came so hard.’*
Morgan’s eyebrows shot up. After class, by their lockers, Morgan pounced.
“Spill.”
“The photo,” Paige said, still glowing. “I used it this morning.”
“God, I love my work,” Morgan grinned, wicked and proud. “Okay. Let’s set a trap. Right now.”
“What? How?”
Morgan already had her phone out. “Turn around. Against the lockers.” Paige obliged, still in her tight black yoga pants and cropped top. Morgan snapped a picture from behind: the curve of Paige’s ass in the sheer fabric, a sliver of toned back showing, and—of course—her bare feet and crimson-painted toes peeking from her sandals.
She showed Paige the screen. “Post it. He’s gonna like it.”
Paige laughed nervously but felt a fresh thrill zing through her post-orgasm haze. “You think?”
“Don’t you worry,” Morgan winked. “He’ll probably have himself in the palm of his hand too.” She paused for comedic effect. “Actually… the palms of *both* his hands. Ha ha ha.”
They cackled like schoolgirls right there in the serene yoga studio lobby.
Paige posted it to Instagram Stories with an innocuous sunset emoji captionless at 11:47 AM.
At 12:17 PM exactly—thirty minutes later—her phone buzzed with a notification.
**Leo Gray liked your story.**
Paige showed Morgan the screen without a word.
Morgan just nodded slowly, a general surveying a perfect battlefield maneuver. “The line isn’t just running,” she said solemnly.
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Chapter 5
Saturday evening was an adventure in tactile possibilities.
Paige wandered the aisles of the boutique sex shop with a mix of academic curiosity and giddy excitement. She ran her fingers over cool silicone vibrators, admired the intricate lace of a harness, and felt her cheeks flush at a rack of sheer, patterned stockings. She finally settled on a few choice items: a set of delicate, ice-blue silk and lace lingerie, a small, powerful bullet vibrator in matte black, and a pair of opaque black stockings with a subtle, swirling lace design up the back.
Back in her apartment, the shopping bags felt like contraband. She laid her purchases out on the bed and called Morgan on video.
“Oh, hell yes,” Morgan crowed as Paige held up the lingerie. “The color is perfect with your skin. He’s gonna lose his mind.”
“And these,” Paige said, switching the camera to show the stockings. “For a… darker mood.”
“A dominant mood,” Morgan corrected with a grin. “You’re planning your arsenal. I love it. The bullet is a classic. Good for… precision work.”
They chatted for a while, strategizing about the upcoming Gray Suit Day, before hanging up. It was then, scrolling through her own feed, that she saw it.
Leo had posted. A picture from Montauk, just as he’d mentioned. He was at a seaside café, a paperback novel open on the table beside a half-finished coffee. The October sun was low and golden, casting a warm glow over his face. He looked relaxed, a soft smile touching his lips as he gazed slightly past the camera, the lines around his eyes gentle. The blue of his eyes seemed to match the vast, sparkling sea behind him. The caption read simply: *“to new beginnings.”*
Paige’s breath caught. It wasn’t a fishing photo. It wasn’t a gym selfie. It was quiet, hopeful, and profoundly sexy in its vulnerability. This was the wounded duck remembering how to fly. This was the man she’d been teasing, the man whose line she’d been letting run.
An idea, bold and thrilling, crystallized in her mind. She saved the photo to her phone.
She walked back to her bed, looking at the silky lingerie, the powerful little toy, and the promise of the stockings. Then she looked at the picture of Leo, warm in the sun, ready for something new.
Her hand drifted to the waistband of her soft sweats. She wasn’t just setting a trap anymore. She was preparing a welcome. And she had a feeling, deep in her bones, that when the trap finally sprang, they’d both be more than ready to be caught.
Chapter 6
Sunday morning light spilled across Paige’s bed. She laid back against the pillows, the ice-blue silk of her new lingerie cool and sinuous against her skin. Closing her eyes, she let her fantasy dive deeper. It wasn’t just about the train anymore. Her hand slid beneath the delicate lace of the panties, her fingers tracing the damp heat gathering there as she pictured Leo’s tall frame in the yoga studio doorway, watching her stretch.
Later, she video-called Morgan, holding up the sleek, silver bullet vibrator.
“See? For stress relief,” Paige said with a smirk.
Morgan cackled. “Honey, you’re gonna need to bring that little silver bullet *to work*. The tension is gonna be radioactive tomorrow. Just so you know, all the office girls are rooting for you. Claudia from marketing, Chloe from HR… we’ve got a pool going. Everyone’s waiting to hear about the girl who tamed that ‘donkey dick’.”
Paige flushed, equal parts embarrassed and thrilled. “It’s not a taming. It’s a… mutual exploration.”
“Sure, sure,” Morgan waved a hand. “Listen, tactical update. Get to the train station at six-fifteen tomorrow, not five-fifteen. His schedule shifted with that new project. When you see him, pretend you just got there. The train’s gonna be packed. Prime conditions for… accidental contact. Maybe you’ll get some heavy petting in.”
The plan was set.
Monday morning arrived, crisp and dark. Paige stood on the platform, her heart drumming against her ribs. She wore a knee-length wool skirt and a simple blouse, but underneath, the ice-blue silk hugged her curves, a secret against her skin. The little silver bullet was buried in her purse, a promise.
Right on cue, Leo’s familiar shape emerged from the crowd. He looked tired but sharp in a navy suit, a leather briefcase in hand. She timed her steps, turning just as he approached.
“Leo! Fancy meeting you here,” she said, feigning surprise.
He blinked, then a genuine smile broke through his morning haze. “Paige. You’re an early bird today.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, letting her shoulder brush his as the train rumbled in. “Too much on my mind.”
The car was every bit as crowded as Morgan predicted. They were pressed together near the doors, the swell of commuters pushing Leo flush against her back. She felt the solid warmth of his chest, the hard line of his belt against her skirt.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his breath warm on her ear.
“It’s okay,” she whispered back.
As the train lurched, his hands came up to steady her hips. They didn’t move away. The pressure was firm, possessive. Through the layers of wool and silk, she felt his thumbs press into the dip of her waist. Another jolt, and she arched back slightly, her ass pressing into the unmistakable, thickening ridge of his cock straining against his trousers.
A low, quiet groan vibrated against her shoulder. One of his hands slid lower, splaying over her lower stomach, pulling her tighter against him. The heat was immense, shocking. Her breath hitched.
“This is…” he started, his voice thick.
“Crowded,” she finished, tilting her head to give his lips access to her neck. She felt the scratch of his stubble, then the soft, open-mouthed press of a kiss just below her ear.
His other hand left her hip, sliding around to her front, fingers skating up the inside of her thigh, under her skirt. The nylon of her stockings whispered as his fingertips found the bare skin of her upper thigh, just an inch from the damp silk waiting there.
“Paige,” he growled, the word all need.
She reached back, her hand finding the hard swell of him through his suit pants. She palmed it, feeling the heavy, urgent length. He thrust against her hand once, twice, a ragged breath escaping him.
The train began to slow for their stop. His fingers flexed against her thigh, a silent, desperate question.
“Not here,” she panted, her own body screaming in protest as she gently pushed his hand away. “Tonight. Your place. Text me the address.”
The doors opened, breaking the spell. They spilled onto the platform, flushed and disheveled. Leo’s blue eyes were dark, dilated with hunger. He nodded, a sharp, decisive motion.
“Tonight,” he agreed, his voice raw. He touched her cheek, a fleeting, electric caress, before turning towards the office, the ghost of his hands still burning on her skin.
Chapter 7
The morning after the train felt like walking through a dream. Paige floated to her desk, the ghost of Leo’s hands still branding her hips. She hadn’t even sat down before Morgan appeared, flanked by Claudia from marketing and Chloe from HR.
“Well?” Morgan hissed, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare hold out.”
Paige glanced around the quiet floor, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The train was packed. He was pressed right against me.” She bit her lip, the memory flooding back. “And when it lurched… he grabbed me. Here.” She placed her hands on her own hips, demonstrating. “And I could feel him. Through his suit. I mean, I *really* could feel him.”
Claudia’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a giggle. Chloe leaned in closer.
“And?” Morgan prompted, her grin wicked.
Paige’s cheeks burned, but the thrill of sharing was too potent. “I… I reached back. Just to see.” She held her hands apart in the air, a measured, significant distance. “Ladies, I am not exaggerating. It took two hands just to get a proper hold of it.”
A collective, hushed “oh my god” rippled through the small group. They all glanced furtively toward the empty corner office, then back at Paige, their expressions a mix of awe and vicarious excitement. Morgan gave a silent, triumphant fist pump. The office pool, it seemed, was about to pay out.
The high lasted all day, a buzzing undercurrent beneath her spreadsheets. Every time she replayed the words *tonight* and *your place* in her mind, a fresh wave of heat pooled low in her belly. She’d worn the ice-blue silk again, just in case.
At 5:28 PM, as she was shutting down her computer, Leo’s tall frame appeared at the mouth of her cubicle. Her heart leapt.
He offered a warm, but slightly pinched, smile. “Hey, Paige.”
“Hey,” she breathed, already rising.
“Listen,” he said, running a hand through his hair, the gesture tense. “I’ve got some lawyer business tonight. Last-minute thing with the divorce paperwork. We’ll have to find another time.”
The words landed like a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs. The silk against her skin suddenly felt foolish, not secret. “Oh,” she managed, forcing a smile. “Of course. No problem.”
He gave her arm a brief, apologetic squeeze before striding away, leaving her standing there, the fluorescent lights humming a cruel, flat note.
The next morning, the gossip mill was already churning. Morgan slid into Paige’s cubicle before the coffee was even brewed.
“He’s WFH today,” she reported, her voice low. “Said he had to deal with some personal stuff. Probably the lawyer thing.”
Paige nodded, staring blankly at her monitor. The fantasy, so vivid and close yesterday, now felt fragile, suspended in the empty space of his quiet office and his silent phone. The trap was set, the web woven, but the prey had calmly stepped around it, leaving her tangled in her own silken threads.
Chapter 8
The email notification arrived just as Paige was about to shut her laptop for the night on Tuesday. The subject line was professional: *RE: Penske File Follow-Up*. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she clicked it open.
The body was all business, a concise request for specific data points from the projects they’d collaborated on. It was perfectly Leo. But then, at the very bottom, just after his signature:
*P.S. – I’m a little sad that I didn’t get to see you today. Seeing you has been the bright spot of my day for a while now 😊.*
A giddy laugh bubbled out of her. She immediately screenshot the PS and fired it to Morgan.
Her phone rang two seconds later. “Oh my god,” Morgan squealed, her voice tinny through the speaker. “He’s hooked, Paige. Totally, utterly hooked. But you can’t just leave him sad. You have to fix it.”
“What do I do? Send a nice email back?”
“No, you idiot. Send him a *picture*.”
“A picture? Morgan, it’s nine PM.”
“Exactly. He’s at home, alone, thinking about you. Cross your legs, push one of your heels until it’s just dangling off your toe. I’ll show them those arches. Put on your glasses and give him that look, you know, the one over the frames. You’ll know. Trust me, you will *have* him. Brett, you know he’s gonna jerk off to that picture.”
The certainty in Morgan’s voice was a potent drug. Paige felt a familiar, thrilling heat bloom in her core. She propped her phone against a book on her coffee table, slipped her reading glasses on, and arranged herself on the couch. She crossed one nyloned leg over the other, letting her black pump dangle precariously from her toes, the arch of her foot taut and elegant. She looked into the camera, her brown eyes smoldering with promise over the rim of her frames, her full lips parted just slightly.
She took the picture. It was a masterpiece of implied availability. She sent it without a caption.
The response was almost instantaneous. A text, not an email.
**Leo:** Good Lord. The things you’re doing to me. You’ve got me so wound up.
She bit her lip, her body singing with power.
**Paige:** I’m sorry. Am I being a distraction?
**Leo:** The best kind. The only kind. I can’t wait to see you on the 6:03 train to work tomorrow morning.
Her breath hitched. The directness was new, deliciously aggressive.
**Paige:** I’ll be there.
**Leo:** It’s Gray Suit Day… I’m not blind, you know. I know it sends some of your girls into a commotion.
She froze, her fingers hovering over the screen. He knew. He’d always known. The game wasn’t a trap she’d set, but a dance he’d willingly joined, waiting for her to lead. The realization was more intoxicating than any fantasy. He wasn’t a wounded duck; he was a wolf in charcoal gray wool, finally showing his teeth.
**Paige:** Maybe I just have an appreciation for fine tailoring.
**Leo:** Or what’s in it. Meet me at the back of the last car. I want to see those nylons in person.
She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. She just set her alarm, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face as she imagined his hands, his voice, and the very deliberate commotion she intended to cause tomorrow.
Chapter 9
The fluorescent buzz of the office felt like a physical hum against Paige’s skin, every nerve ending alive with the memory of her hand wrapped around Leo’s cock. She walked past the bullpen with a ghost of a smirk, ignoring Morgan’s wide-eyed, questioning look. She didn’t break stride until she pushed through the door to the women’s restroom, the lock clicking into place behind her with a satisfying finality.
Leaning against the cool tile wall, she fumbled in her purse and pulled out the silver bullet vibrator. Its metallic weight was a promise. Her other hand slid up her skirt, over the slick, seamless nylon of her pantyhose. The fabric was damp, soaked through with her own arousal. With a sharp intake of breath, she pressed the rounded tip of the vibrator against the exact spot where the nylon grew wet and warm, right over her aching clit. She didn’t turn it on. Not yet.
She took out her phone to the swim team photo. She pressed the button