They shouldn’t be here.
The library was closed. The kind of quiet that hums in your bones had settled in—only the creak of old floorboards and the occasional gust of wind against the stained glass windows.
She followed him between the rows of books, heart hammering harder with every step. Dust motes floated like ghosts in the moonlight that spilled through the high windows. It felt like stepping into a dream—or a confession.
"You're late," he said, voice low, clipped, his back to her.
“I wanted to make sure no one saw me leave.”
He turned. Their eyes locked.
A professor. His student. Final semester. Too close to graduation for this to be anything but reckless.
Still—she dropped her bag to the floor.
“You're wearing it,” he murmured, stepping closer.
She nodded. The dark green skirt. No underwear.
Like he asked.
He pinned her to the bookshelf with his gaze alone. His hands came next—rough from chalk and old books, but precise, surgical, reverent. Her breath caught as he lifted her onto the low shelf, books tumbling to the floor like scattered thoughts.
"You don't even hesitate anymore," he said, fingers grazing her thigh.
"You taught me not to."
His mouth was on hers in the next second—urgent, consuming. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him close. One hand tangled in his shirt, the other gripping the edge of the shelf as his hands explored her like something he’d studied for months.
It was fast. It was messy. It was everything it wasn’t supposed to be.
And when he slid into her, there was no turning back. Her gasp echoed off ancient spines—Shakespeare, Woolf, Dante—all bearing witness.
Their rhythm was silent thunder. No names. No future. Just the sharp edge of now.
Somewhere, a book fell.
Neither noticed.