Borrowed Time: Overdue Passion in the Stacks

Three days later, I still feel the low-grade hum of irritation when I think about sociology class. Who does Logan Evans think he is? His cocky attitude, the way he leans back in his chair like he owns the place, the constant stream of nonsense coming out of his mouth. I can't stop thinking about it.

I flop onto my bed, staring at the empty white walls of my dorm room. My roommate is gone for the weekend, and the silence feels heavy and oppressive. I've finished all my homework. I've even cleaned the bathroom. Now there's nothing left but the thoughts circling in my head.

My phone buzzes with a text from Leah about our literature assignment. I tap out a quick response, then drop the phone on my stomach and sigh. The afternoon stretches empty before me.

A thought slides into my mind. The kind I usually push away.

I glance at the door—locked. The blinds—closed.

It's just me. No one would ever know.

I sit up and pull my shirt over my head, feeling a strange, forbidden thrill buzz through my veins. I unhook my bra and let it fall to the floor. The cool air against my bare skin makes me shiver.

I pick up my phone and open the camera. My heart is pounding. I've never done this before.

I angle the phone above me, trying different poses. At first, I'm stiff and awkward, but gradually I relax. There's something liberating about this—seeing myself through a different lens. Not as the uptight, judgmental girl everyone thinks I am. As someone else. Someone bolder.

My phone buzzes with another text from Leah, breaking my concentration. I check it quickly, holding the phone above me, then respond about the page count for our assignment.

I return to what I was doing, growing braver with each picture. I slide my jeans off, leaving just my underwear. Then, with a surge of daring, I remove that too.

I take several more photos, each one more revealing than the last. The final one makes me blush—it shows everything, my face partially visible, my expression both vulnerable and defiant.

My phone buzzes again. Leah, asking if I've started the reading.

"Not yet," I type back, my fingers slippery with nervous excitement.

I decide I should save these photos somewhere safe. I definitely don't want them in my regular camera roll where someone might see. I'll move them to my password-protected folder.

My thumb hovers over the most explicit image. My heart is still racing, but now with a pleasant adrenaline rush. I did something wild. Something the "real" Chloe would never do. And no one will ever know.

I tap the photo, then the share icon, intending to move it to my secure folder. My phone buzzes yet again with Leah's reply, and I glance at the notification. As I do, my thumb slips.

I don't even notice which contact I've selected as I quickly tap through the prompts, eager to finish this secret task and respond to Leah. It's only when I get back to our conversation that I realize I didn't actually complete moving the photo to the secure folder.

Oh well. I can do it later.

I set my phone down on the nightstand, a small smile playing on my lips. I feel different somehow—like I've pushed back against some invisible boundary. I pull my clothes back on, humming softly to myself, completely unaware of the digital catastrophe that's just been set in motion.

I'm halfway to the cafeteria when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably Jake asking if I want to hit the gym later. I pull it out without breaking stride, weaving through the packed hallway.

I tap the notification and freeze mid-step. Someone slams into my back, muttering "Watch it, asshole," but their voice sounds distant, underwater.

On my screen is Chloe Chen. Completely naked.

I blink hard, certain I'm hallucinating. But when I look again, she's still there—her small breasts, the curve of her hip, the dark patch between her legs. Her face is partially visible, her expression a mix of defiance and something else I can't quite place.

Chloe Chen. The same Chloe who publicly eviscerated me in sociology last week. Miss High-and-Mighty with her tight ponytail and her judgmental stare.

I duck to the side of the hallway, pressing my back against the wall. My heart is hammering. I look at the top of the message. No text, just the photo. Just her name above it.

"What the fuck?" I whisper to myself.

People push past me, the hallway still crowded with students rushing to their next classes. I should close the image. I should delete it. Instead, I keep staring.

There's something about seeing her like this—vulnerable, human, sexual—that short-circuits my brain. This doesn't match the ice queen who called me an "emotionally stunted man-child" in front of twenty people. This is someone else entirely.

Or maybe this is the real Chloe, and the judgmental prude is the act.

The thought sends a rush of heat through me. The hypocrisy is infuriating. She sits there looking down her nose at everyone while secretly taking nudes? Who the hell does she think she is?

But beneath the anger is something else. Something that makes my mouth dry and my jeans suddenly uncomfortable. I can't stop looking at the curve of her waist, the soft roundness of her breasts.

I force myself to exit the image and pocket my phone, my hand shaking slightly. Two girls walk by, laughing about something, and I realize I'm still standing frozen against the wall like a weirdo.

I push off and start walking again, but my mind is racing. Why would she send this to me? Is it some kind of weird power move? A mistake? Is she messing with me?

As I walk, a decision forms. I won't mention it. I won't respond. I'll act like nothing happened the next time I see her in class.

But I'll know. I'll have this secret knowledge of her, this glimpse behind the curtain. And somehow, that feels more powerful than any comeback I could have made in class.

I can't help the slight smile that tugs at my lips as I continue down the hallway. Chloe Chen isn't who I thought she was. Not at all.

For the past week, I've been desperately trying to forget that Logan exists. Every time I see his face in sociology class, my cheeks burn—does he know? Did he see it? I've checked my sent messages a hundred times, and there's nothing there, but the gnawing anxiety won't leave me alone.

Tonight, the fourth floor of Wellington's library is my sanctuary. Midterms are coming, and I need to focus on something—anything—other than the possibility that Logan has seen me naked.

The tall shelves create a maze of private alcoves. I've claimed a carrel in the farthest corner, surrounded by ancient sociology journals no one ever reads. My phone is locked downstairs—Professor Abernathy's statistics questions require too much concentration to risk the distraction.

I'm halfway through my practice problems when I hear footsteps. Heavy ones, echoing between the shelves. I peek around my carrel and spot the night guard—Will, according to his name tag—doing a final sweep. He looks tired, his eyes barely scanning the empty study tables as he walks past my section.

"Anyone still up here?" he calls halfheartedly.

I open my mouth to respond, but he's already turning, heading for the stairs. I shrug and return to my notes. They close at midnight on Fridays. I still have an hour.

The distant sounds of locks engaging barely register as I lose myself in statistical formulas. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead; the only other sound is the scratch of my pencil. Time slips away.

It's the sudden awareness of silence that finally pulls me from my work. I check my watch—12:47. Shit.

I quickly pack my notebooks and pens, slinging my backpack over one shoulder. The floor is eerily quiet, the overhead lights dimmed to their nighttime setting.

As I navigate through the shelves toward the stairs, a movement catches my eye. Someone else is still here, gathering books at a table near the main staircase.

Logan.

My stomach drops. I consider retreating, hiding until he leaves, but it's too late. He looks up, and our eyes meet. His expression shifts—surprise, then something unreadable. Has he been avoiding me too?

I straighten my spine and walk past him toward the stairs, pretending he's invisible.

"Library's closed," he says behind me, his voice unusually neutral.

"I know," I snap, not breaking stride. "I'm leaving."

We descend the stairs in uncomfortable silence, several steps apart. Four floors of tension. I fix my eyes on the steps, refusing to look at him. The main floor is dim, emergency lights casting long shadows.

I push against the heavy main doors.

They don't budge.

I push harder, then notice the thick chain threaded through the handles, secured with a heavy padlock. Beyond the glass, the campus is dark and empty.

"No way," Logan says behind me, his voice tight. He moves past me to rattle the doors himself, as if I might be too weak to open them properly. "They're serious? They actually chain it?"

"Apparently," I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the panic rising in my chest. "There must be another exit."

We try every door we can find—emergency exits, side entrances, even the windows. All locked, all alarmed. After thirty minutes of increasingly desperate searching, we end up back at the main entrance.

"My phone's in the locker downstairs," I say, slumping against the circulation desk. "Is yours—"

"Same," Logan says, running a hand through his hair. "Campus security does rounds, right? They'll see us."

"Through these windows? In the dark?" I gesture to the tall glass doors that look out into the unlit quadrangle. "No one's coming until Monday morning."

The reality sinks in. We're trapped here. Together. For the entire weekend.

Logan paces, his footsteps echoing in the empty atrium. "This is fucking ridiculous. There has to be a way out."

"Well, unless you want to break a window and get arrested for vandalism," I say, my voice tight with frustration, "I think we're stuck."

He stops pacing and looks at me directly for the first time. There's something in his eyes—a flicker of the same discomfort I've been feeling all week. Does he know? Has he seen it?

"Great," he says finally, looking away. "Just great."

I dig my nails into my palms. Three days trapped in a library with Logan Matthews. The universe has a cruel sense of humor.

"I'm going back upstairs," I announce, grabbing my backpack. "There's a study lounge on the third floor with couches. I suggest you find somewhere comfortable too."

As I climb the stairs, I can feel his eyes on my back. This building suddenly feels both too big and far too small.

Three days. Seventy-two hours until freedom. I can do this. I can avoid him in a six-floor library.

I just have to make sure he never finds out what I did.

Sleep isn't coming. Not in this place, with her somewhere in this building.

The study lounge couch is too short for my legs, and the cushions smell like years of student anxiety. After tossing for two hours, I give up. Maybe exploring will tire me out.

The stacks are creepy at night. Emergency lights cast everything in a dim blue glow that makes the shadows deeper. Each floor feels like a maze—shelves creating corridors that lead nowhere.

I find myself heading downstairs. The basement level is maintenance, storage, staff areas—places students never go. It's even darker down here, the emergency lights spaced farther apart.

My hand trails along the cool concrete wall as I navigate the narrow hallway. The silence is heavy until I hear it—a low, mechanical hum coming from behind a door marked "Staff Only."

I push it open. A small, institutional laundry room. Two industrial washers, three massive dryers. One is running, tumbling someone's forgotten load. The warmth and white noise feel comforting after the cold silence upstairs.

I sit on a folding chair, letting the heat and rhythm of the dryer wash over me. And then, unbidden, she's in my head again.

Chloe. Fuck.

For a week I've been trying to forget that photo. I don't even know why she sent it. Some mistake, probably. But I can't unsee it—her small, perfect tits, the curve of her waist, those dark eyes looking directly into the camera with an expression I never thought I'd see on her face. Open. Wanting.

The memory makes my cock stiffen instantly. I shift in the chair, pressing against the confines of my jeans. The humming dryer, the isolation, the knowledge that I'm completely alone—it all coalesces into a surging need.

I shouldn't. But the pressure is building, has been building all day, trapped in this building with her. I unzip, the sound loud in the empty room.

My cock springs free, achingly hard. I wrap my hand around it, the sensation making me gasp. I close my eyes and lean back against the vibrating dryer. The mechanical rhythm travels through my spine as I begin to stroke.

In my mind, it's her hand, not mine. Her fingers wrapping around my shaft, her perfect lips parting as she looks up at me. The fantasy is so vivid I can almost smell her—that clean, subtle scent I caught when we passed in the stairwell.

I increase my pace, my breath coming faster. The head of my cock is slick, making each stroke smoother. The vibration from the dryer intensifies everything—each nerve ending alive with sensation.

"Fuck," I whisper, the word escaping unbidden. In my fantasy, she's kneeling now, those judgmental eyes looking up at me with newfound hunger as she takes me into her mouth. The thought of Miss Priss herself with her lips stretched around my cock nearly pushes me over the edge.

I'm close, my hand moving faster. My balls tighten, that telltale pressure building at the base of my spine. The fantasy shifts—now I'm bending her over this very dryer, her hands braced against the metal as I drive into her from behind. Her hair falling forward, her back arching as I grab her hips, pulling her back onto my—

*CREAK*

My eyes fly open. For a split second, I see her—Chloe, eyes wide with shock, half-hidden behind the partially open door. Our eyes lock in a moment of mutual horror. Then she's gone, a flash of movement in the dark hallway.

"Shit!" I stuff myself back into my jeans, the zipper catching painfully in my haste. "Shit, shit, shit."

My face burns with humiliation. My stomach drops so fast I feel nauseated. Of all people—her. The girl who already thinks I'm disgusting. The girl who's been in my fantasies for a week.

I stand frozen, heart pounding in my ears louder than the dryer's hum. What the fuck do I do now? Where can I hide in this goddamn building? We're trapped here for two more days.

The reality crashes into me—there's nowhere to run. No escape from this mortification.

For a moment, I consider just sitting here until Monday, letting the industrial dryer's rhythm soothe my shattered pride. But the thought of her out there, processing what she saw—probably disgusted, possibly laughing at me—galvanizes me into action.

I have to find her. Have to say something—anything—to make this less excruciating than it is.

I zip up completely and step into the hallway, following the direction she fled. Each step feels like walking to an execution.

I run blindly through the basement corridor, my heart hammering against my ribs. The image is burned into my mind—Logan, his head tilted back, his hand working frantically, his face lost in pleasure. I can't process what I just saw.

I take the stairs two at a time, desperate to put distance between us. The main reading room is vast and shadowed, illuminated only by emergency lights that cast everything in an eerie blue glow. I collapse onto a massive leather sofa in the farthest corner, pulling my knees to my chest.

What just happened? The Logan I know is all swagger and crude jokes. The man I just saw was... vulnerable. Raw. Human.

I close my eyes, but that only makes the image sharper. The muscles in his forearm flexing. The rhythm of his movements. The way his breathing hitched.

Footsteps echo on the marble floor. I shrink deeper into the sofa, wishing I could disappear into the leather. But there's nowhere to hide.

Logan appears in the archway, hesitating. His face is flushed, his hair disheveled. He looks nothing like the boy who holds court in sociology class. This Logan is stripped of all his armor, and the sight makes my chest tighten.

He walks toward me slowly, like I'm a frightened animal that might bolt. He's right—I would if I could.

"Chloe," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

I can't look at him. My face is burning so hot I'm sure it's visible even in the dim light.

He sits on the opposite end of the sofa, leaving as much space between us as possible. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

"Look," he finally starts, his voice shaky. I can feel him not looking at me. "I know what you saw."

I stare fixedly at a spot on the carpet. The pattern blurs as my eyes fill with tears of mortification.

"It's..." He swallows audibly. "You get in my head. In class, all wound up..."

I risk a glance. He's staring at his hands, fingers twisting together.

"And ever since that picture you sent me..." he continues, "I can't stop thinking about it."

Picture? My mind races. What picture? I've never sent him anything.

"Since..." My voice comes out as a croak. I clear my throat. "What picture?"

He looks up, confusion crossing his face. "The one you texted me last week. I figured it was... I don't know, some kind of power move or something."

Cold realization washes over me. The photos I took. The misplaced text. Oh god.

"I didn't mean..." The words stall in my throat. "It was an accident. I didn't know."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "You didn't send it on purpose?"

"No!" I flush even hotter. "I was texting my friend Leah. Your names are next to each other in my contacts."

"Oh." He looks away again, and I see his throat work as he swallows. "So you didn't want me to see you like that."

The implication hangs between us. He's been thinking about me. Looking at me. Fantasizing about me.

And just now, in that basement room...

"Were you..." I can hardly form the question. "When I saw you, were you thinking about me?"

The question hangs in the air. His silence is answer enough.

Something shifts inside me. A warmth that starts low in my belly and spreads outward.

Logan—the object of my scorn, the embodiment of everything I claim to despise, the star of my most secret thoughts—desires me. The realization hits with physical force.

"I..." Logan starts, then stops. "I should probably just stay away from you until Monday. This is embarrassing enough without—"

"I don't get it," I whisper, cutting him off. My voice doesn't sound like my own. "I'm always such a bitch to you."

He gives a small, surprised laugh. "Yeah. You are."

I look at him—really look at him for perhaps the first time. Without his cocky smile, without his rehearsed lines, he's just a boy. Beautiful and uncertain and real.

"You're not what I thought," I say quietly.

"Neither are you," he replies.

Something electric passes between us. I look away, overwhelmed by the intensity.

"Oh my god." The words escape in a breath. "I can't believe this is turning me on."

I clap my hand over my mouth, horrified that I've spoken aloud. But it's true. Under the embarrassment, under the confusion, there's a pulsing, insistent heat.

Logan's sharp intake of breath is audible in the silent room. When I dare to look at him again, his eyes have darkened.

"What did you say?" he asks, his voice low.

I shake my head, unable to repeat it. But I don't take it back.

The space between us on the sofa suddenly feels charged, a no-man's land neither of us is brave enough to cross. Not yet.

"We should probably try to get some sleep," I say, my voice unsteady. "It's late."

Logan nods, though neither of us moves. We sit in silence for what feels like an eternity, the air between us thick with unspoken possibilities.

Finally, he stands. "I'll go back downstairs. Give you some space."

I nod, not trusting my voice. He walks to the archway, then pauses, looking back.

"Chloe?"

"Yes?"

"I'm... I'm glad we got locked in here."

Then he's gone, his footsteps fading down the marble stairs, leaving me alone with a riot of new feelings and the longest night of my life ahead.

I don't sleep. Not for a minute.

The leather sofa creaks beneath me as I shift positions for the hundredth time. My body is exhausted, but my mind won't stop racing. The first pale light of dawn seeps through the tall arched windows, painting rectangles of dusty gold on the marble floor.

Across the reading room, Logan is asleep on another sofa. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. One arm is thrown across his eyes, the other dangles toward the floor. He looks younger when he sleeps. More like the boy he probably was before he built all those walls around himself.

I can't look away from him.

The events of the night replay in my head on an endless loop. Getting locked in. Wandering into the basement. Seeing Logan in that laundry room, caught in a moment so private I still burn with embarrassment thinking about it.

His face when he realized I'd seen him. His confession afterward. The picture he wasn't supposed to see. The picture I didn't even know he had.

And my own response—those words that came out of my mouth before I could stop them: *I can't believe this is turning me on.*

Who was that person? Not Chloe Zhang, surely. Not the girl who rolls her eyes at crude jokes and lectures boys like Logan about respect. Not the daughter who makes her mother proud with her focus on studies instead of dating.

I press my thighs together, trying to quell the insistent throb between them. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. My body has been in a state of low-grade arousal for hours now, and it's exhausting.

I've felt desire before, of course. But never like this—never something that bypasses my brain entirely and lives in my skin, my breath, the pit of my stomach. Never something I couldn't rationalize away or distract myself from.

Logan shifts in his sleep, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of skin above his jeans. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the image is already there, joining all the others from last night.

What would people think if they could see inside my head right now? My friends? My parents? The thought should mortify me. It should make me curl into myself with shame.

But for the first time in my life, I don't care.

That's the most frightening part. The judgment I've always feared—from others, from myself—seems so distant and unimportant compared to this new, physical reality. This need.

I'm like a swimmer who's been fighting against the current for years, exhausting myself trying to stay in place. And suddenly, I've stopped swimming. I'm letting the current take me. It should be terrifying to surrender control like this, but instead, it feels like relief.

Light grows stronger in the room. Soon Logan will wake up, and we'll have to face each other in the harsh clarity of day. We'll have to decide what to do with this new, strange awareness between us. We'll have to navigate another endless day in this empty building, knowing what we now know about each other.

My entire body hums with anticipation and dread.

I look at him again—this boy I thought I knew, this boy I thought I hated. In sleep, his face is vulnerable, stripped of the smirking confidence that has always irritated me. I can see the echo of his expression from last night when he made his confession. When he laid himself bare.

Something is breaking inside me. Some carefully constructed dam holding back parts of myself I've never allowed anyone to see. I can feel the cracks spreading. I can feel the pressure building.

And I know, with sudden, absolute certainty, that before we leave this library, that dam will break entirely. The flood is coming. I'm tired of fighting it.

I close my eyes and let the first light of day wash over my face. Whatever happens next, I'm done pretending.

I'm done lying to myself.

I didn't expect us to end up here.

The archives. The dustiest, most forgotten part of the library. After that first night—after what happened—we both silently agreed to keep our distance. So we made beds in separate corners of this labyrinth of metal shelving and cardboard boxes. I can't even see her from where I am.

It's better this way. Every time I look at Chloe, I remember the humiliation of being caught, followed by the shock of her confession. *I can't believe this is turning me on.* Those words have been echoing in my head all day.

We barely spoke as we explored the building, looking for food, for comfortable places to wait out our imprisonment. The silence between us felt like a physical thing—charged, dangerous.

Now it's past midnight. The ancient leather chair I found creaks as I shift my weight. I should try to sleep, but my body is wired, tense in ways I can't ignore. All day I've been stealing glances at her—the curve of her neck when she reached for a book on a high shelf, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear while reading.

I close my eyes and see the picture again. The one she accidentally sent me last week. Chloe—uptight, judgmental Chloe—completely naked, her small breasts perfectly shaped, her hips curving into slim thighs, her expression a mix of defiance and vulnerability that hit me like a punch to the gut.

My cock stiffens at the memory. I press my palm against it, trying to will the arousal away, but it's hopeless. We're trapped here another day at least. I need release.

I listen for any sound from her corner of the archives. Nothing. Just the dense silence of a building holding its breath.

Fuck it.

I unzip my jeans, pull my cock out. It's already fully hard, the head glistening with pre-cum. I spit into my palm and wrap my hand around the shaft, squeezing tight. My head falls back against the chair as I start to stroke.

I try to focus on other women—past hookups, porn I've watched—but my mind keeps circling back to Chloe. To that picture. To her words last night. To the way she looked at me this morning when she thought I didn't notice—like she was seeing something in me she never expected to find.

My hand moves faster. The chair creaks rhythmically beneath me. I bite my lip to keep quiet, but small groans escape anyway. I can't help it. The fantasy building in my head is too intense.

I imagine her watching me again, but this time she doesn't run away. This time she comes closer. Kneels between my legs. Replaces my hand with her mouth. Those judgmental eyes looking up at me as her lips stretch around my cock.

"Fuck," I whisper, pumping harder. My hips lift off the chair. The leather protests beneath me. I don't care. I'm close.

In my mind, Chloe doesn't stop. She takes me deeper. Her hands grip my thighs. She moans around me. She wants this—wants me—as much as I want her.

My balls tighten. Pressure builds at the base of my spine. My free hand grips the chair arm so hard my knuckles turn white. When I come, it's with her name caught in my throat, my cock pulsing as streams of cum shoot onto my stomach and hand.

I sit there afterward, breathing hard in the silence, waiting for my heart to slow down. Shame and satisfaction war inside me. I clean myself up with tissues from my pocket, zip my jeans, and stare at the ceiling.

What the hell am I doing? This isn't like me. I don't obsess over women like this, especially not women like Chloe. Yet here I am, jerking off to thoughts of her for the second time in two days.

I close my eyes and try to sleep. Tomorrow is another endless day trapped with a woman who's seen too much of me—in every sense—and who I can't stop thinking about. Another day of pretending this tension between us isn't building toward something inevitable.

I don't hear the soft intake of breath from the vent near my chair. I don't realize I'm not the only one awake in the darkness. I don't know that across the archives, in her own makeshift bed, Chloe is listening to every sound I make, her body responding in ways that will change everything between us.

I don't know that the flood is coming. But it is.

I have to get out of here.

The walls of the archive are closing in on me, my pulse hammering so loud I can barely think. Those sounds from the vent—Logan's low groans, the rhythmic creak of leather, the barely audible whisper that might have been my name—they're consuming me.

I slide out from under my makeshift blanket, my entire body electric with need. My feet carry me through the darkened library on autopilot. I know exactly where I'm going. Where I have to go.

The basement air is cold against my flushed skin as I descend the stairs. The laundry room door looms ahead—the scene of yesterday's mortifying discovery. I push it open, slip inside, and flip on the single harsh fluorescent light.

The industrial washing machines and dryers are silent sentinels, witnesses to what I'm about to do. I approach one of the dryers, place my palm against its cold metal surface. My reflection in its round window is distorted, unrecognizable. Good. I don't want to be myself right now. I don't want to be the Chloe who judges, who denies, who pretends she doesn't want.

I press the start button. The machine rumbles to life, vibrations humming through the metal. I lean against it, close my eyes, and let the sounds from the vent replay in my mind. Logan touching himself. Logan thinking about me.

My hand slides beneath the waistband of my sweatpants, then under my panties. I'm already wet, so wet it shocks me. I've never been this aroused before, never felt this desperate, reckless need. My fingers find my clit, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan.

I start to move my hand in tight circles, my hips rocking against the dryer's vibrations. The fantasy builds behind my closed eyelids—Logan finding me here, Logan seeing what he does to me, Logan's hands replacing mine.

The door creaks.

My eyes fly open.

Logan stands frozen in the doorway, his expression a perfect mirror of mine from yesterday—shock, disbelief, and something darker, hungrier. His gaze drops to where my hand disappears into my pants, and his throat works as he swallows.

I should be mortified. I should run. But something inside me has broken open, and I can't go back to being who I was before. I don't move my hand. Instead, I hold his gaze, letting him see everything I've been hiding.

"I heard you," I whisper, my voice rough. "Through the vent. I couldn't stop thinking about it."

His chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. The silence between us stretches, taut as a wire about to snap.

"Will you just..." My voice catches. I've never said these words aloud before, never even allowed myself to think them. But now they pour out of me, raw and unfiltered. "Will you just... fuck me?"

Something breaks in his expression. Three long strides and he's across the room, his body pressing mine against the dryer, his mouth crashing down on mine. His kiss is nothing like I imagined—it's rough, desperate, almost angry. His teeth catch my bottom lip, and I gasp into his mouth.

His hands are everywhere at once—tangling in my hair, gripping my waist, sliding under my t-shirt to palm my breast through my bra. I arch into his touch, a moan tearing from my throat.

"I've thought about this," he pants against my neck, his teeth scraping my skin. "Since that picture. Fucking hell, Chloe."

Picture? What picture? But I can't focus on his words, not with his hands pulling at my clothes, not with his hardness pressed against my stomach.

He yanks my shirt over my head, fumbles with the clasp of my bra until it falls away. His eyes darken as he stares at my exposed breasts, small and firm in the harsh light. His thumbs brush over my nipples, and I cry out, the sensation almost too intense.

"God, look at you," he mutters, bending to take one nipple in his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue makes my knees buckle.

I pull at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. He breaks away just long enough to strip it off, then presses back against me, chest to chest. The feel of him—warm and solid and real—sends a surge of wetness between my legs.

His hands hook into the waistband of my sweatpants and underwear, dragging them down my thighs in one rough motion. The cool air hits my pussy, making me shiver. I kick the clothing aside, now completely naked while he's still half-dressed.

"Turn around," he commands, his voice thick.

I obey, turning to face the dryer. His hand presses between my shoulder blades, bending me forward until my cheek rests against the vibrating metal. I hear the rustle of fabric, the metallic sound of a zipper, then the distinctive tear of a foil packet.

"Where did you—" I begin to ask.

"Wallet," he answers. "Always."

Of course. Logan, who brags about his conquests. Logan, who's always prepared.

His hands grip my hips, positioning me. I feel the blunt head of his cock nudging against my entrance, testing how wet I am. I'm so ready for him it's embarrassing, my thighs already trembling with anticipation.

"Tell me again," he says, his voice strained. "Tell me what you want."

"Fuck me," I repeat, the words easier now, freeing. "Please, Logan, fuck me."

He pushes inside in one long, smooth stroke, filling me completely. I cry out at the sudden fullness, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth metal of the dryer. He's bigger than I expected, stretching me in ways that hover on the edge of pain.

"Fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to rest between my shoulder blades. "You're so tight."

He starts to move, pulling back and then slamming forward again. Each thrust pushes me against the dryer, its vibrations adding another layer of sensation. I'm overwhelmed, drowning in feelings I've denied myself for too long.

"Is this what you thought about?" he asks, his voice ragged in my ear. "When you heard me jerking off? Did you imagine me fucking you like this?"

"Yes," I gasp, beyond shame now. "Yes, god, yes."

His pace increases, his hips snapping against my ass with each thrust. One hand slides around my hip, fingers finding my clit and rubbing in tight circles that make stars burst behind my eyelids.

"Come for me," he demands. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

His words push me closer to the edge. I've never been spoken to like this, never been touched like this—like I'm something desirable, something to be consumed. The pressure builds inside me, a tightening coil of tension.

"I can't," I whimper, even as my body contradicts me, clenching around him. "I've never—"

"You can," he insists, his fingers moving faster, his cock hitting something deep inside me that makes me see white. "Let go, Chloe. Just fucking let go."

And I do. The orgasm crashes through me with unexpected violence, tearing a scream from my throat that I muffle against my arm. My pussy spasms around him, wave after wave of pleasure making my legs shake uncontrollably.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Logan chants, his rhythm faltering as my inner walls grip him. "I'm gonna—"

His body tenses against mine, his cock pulsing inside me as he comes. His groan is guttural, primal, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave marks.

For a long moment, we stay frozen like that, both of us panting, sweat cooling on our skin. Then he slowly pulls out, and I wince at the sudden emptiness. I turn around, leaning back against the dryer for support, my legs still weak.

We stare at each other, naked in more ways than one. All our defenses are down. All our pretenses stripped away. In the harsh fluorescent light, I see Logan—really see him—for the first time. Not the arrogant player from class discussions. Not the vulnerable boy I caught masturbating. But something more complex, more real.

And in his eyes, I see that he's seeing me too. Not the judgmental prude. Not the secretly horny hypocrite. But all of me, contradictions and all.

"Well," he says finally, a small, uncertain smile touching his lips. "That was..."

"Yeah," I agree, wrapping my arms around myself, suddenly aware of my nakedness.

He reaches out, gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The tenderness of the gesture after the roughness of our fucking makes my breath catch.

"We should probably..." He gestures vaguely toward the door.

"Yeah," I say again, bending to retrieve my scattered clothes. "We should."

As we dress in awkward silence, I realize something fundamental has shifted between us. The walls we built, the roles we played—they're gone now. And what comes next is terrifying, exhilarating, unknown.

But for the first time in my life, I don't want to analyze it or control it. I just want to feel it.

Whatever this is.

Morning filters through a small window high on the wall, turning the dust motes to floating gold. I stretch my stiff limbs, momentarily disoriented until I remember where I am—the faculty lounge on the third floor of the library.

"Good morning," Logan says softly. He's sitting in an armchair across from me, watching me with an expression I can't quite read.

I pull the emergency blanket we found in a storage closet tighter around my naked body. After the laundry room, we'd stumbled back to our makeshift beds in the archives, but neither of us could sleep. Somehow we'd found ourselves wandering the library again, discovering this locked faculty lounge that Logan managed to jimmy open with his student ID.

We'd fallen asleep on opposite ends of the plush leather sofa, exhausted from the night's activities.

"Morning," I reply, suddenly shy. In the harsh fluorescent light of the laundry room, with adrenaline and lust pumping through my veins, everything had seemed simple. Now, in the gentle morning sunlight, I don't know what to say.

Logan rises from the armchair and sits beside me on the sofa. He's wearing only his boxers, his chest bare. I try not to stare at the lean muscles of his torso, the light brown curls on his chest that taper down to disappear beneath the waistband of his underwear.

"We should probably talk," he says, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair.

"About what happened," I say. It's not a question.

"Yeah." He pauses. "I don't usually... I mean, that wasn't..."

"It's okay," I cut in, misinterpreting his hesitation. "It was just a one-time thing. We were locked in, tensions were high—"

"That's not what I was going to say." His eyes meet mine, surprisingly earnest. "I was going to say that wasn't what I expected. You weren't what I expected."

The morning sun catches in his light brown eyes, turning them to amber. Something shifts in my chest.

"So, that picture you sent me," he continues. "Was that on purpose?"

"What picture?" I ask, genuinely confused.

Logan reaches for his jeans on the floor, fishing his phone from the pocket. "This one," he says, turning the screen toward me.

I gasp. It's me—completely naked, legs slightly parted, one hand on my breast. The artistic nude I'd taken for myself and accidentally sent... to Logan? The blood drains from my face as the pieces fall into place.

"I didn't... oh my god." My hands fly to my cheeks, which are burning hot. "That was an accident. I was trying to send it to my private folder and I must have—oh god."

Instead of laughing at my mortification, Logan puts his phone down and takes my hands in his.

"Hey," he says gently. "It's okay. I thought maybe it was a mistake, but then you never mentioned it, so I wasn't sure."

"I didn't know," I whisper. "I had no idea you had seen... that."

"Well," he says, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "now I've seen a lot more than that."

The tension breaks, and I find myself laughing. He joins in, and suddenly we're both giggling like children, the awkwardness dissolving.

When our laughter subsides, something else takes its place—a warm, pulsing awareness. Logan's hand is still holding mine, his thumb tracing small circles on my palm. The casual touch sends shivers up my arm.

"I want to see you again," he says quietly. "All of you."

I should say no. I should resurrect the walls between us, remember all the reasons I despised him. But those reasons seem flimsy now, like paper tigers that have dissolved in the rain.

I let the emergency blanket slip from my shoulders, baring myself to him in the soft morning light.

His eyes darken as he takes me in, lingering on my small breasts with their pink nipples pebbled in the cool air, trailing down to the dark triangle between my legs.

"You're beautiful," he says, and unlike his classroom bravado, there's no artifice in his voice. "Can I touch you?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

His hands are gentler than they were last night, almost reverent as they explore my body. He cups my breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple in a way that makes my breath catch. His mouth follows, warm and wet, sucking gently until I'm arching into him, my fingers tangled in his curls.

"I want to taste you," he murmurs against my skin. "Will you let me?"

No one has ever asked to do that before. The thought of his mouth between my legs sends a rush of heat to my core.

"Yes," I whisper.

Logan slides off the sofa to kneel on the carpet between my thighs. He looks up at me, his expression a mix of desire and something more vulnerable, something that makes my heart race faster than just lust.

His hands part my legs wider, exposing me completely. I resist the urge to cover myself, to hide from his intense gaze.

"So pretty," he says, his breath warm against my most intimate place. "I've thought about this since I saw that picture. What you'd taste like."

Before I can respond, his mouth is on me. The first touch of his tongue against my clit makes me gasp, my hips bucking involuntarily. He steadies me with his hands on my thighs, keeping me open for him.

Unlike his usual performative confidence, there's something almost worshipful in the way he explores me with his tongue. Each slow, deliberate lick seems focused on learning what makes me respond, not on demonstrating his skill. When he finds a rhythm that makes me moan, he stays with it, his tongue making tight circles around my clit while his fingers tease at my entrance.

"Is this okay?" he asks, looking up at me, his lips shiny with my wetness.

"God, yes," I manage, my voice strained. "Please don't stop."

He smiles against me, then slides one finger inside while his tongue continues its relentless attention to my clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming. I fall back against the sofa cushions, one hand gripping his hair, the other clutching at the leather upholstery.

He adds a second finger, curling them inside me to hit a spot that makes white light burst behind my eyelids. My thighs begin to tremble as tension builds low in my belly.

"Logan," I gasp, "I'm going to—"

"Come for me," he urges, the vibration of his words against my sensitive flesh pushing me closer to the edge. "Let me taste you when you come."

His fingers pump faster, his tongue flattens against my clit, and I shatter. The orgasm washes over me in waves, my pussy clenching around his fingers as I cry out his name. He doesn't stop, drawing out my pleasure until I'm whimpering, oversensitive, gently pushing his head away.

As I come back to myself, I see him watching me with an expression of wonder that makes me blush all over again. But instead of the shame I'd expect to feel, I'm filled with a new boldness.

"Your turn," I say, reaching for him.

Logan stands, removing his boxers. His cock springs free, hard and flushed, a drop of pre-cum glistening at the tip. It's strange to think that this was inside me last night, that I barely saw it in our frantic coupling.

Now, in the gentle morning light, I take my time studying him. He's beautiful in his own way—lean but strong, his skin pale where the sun doesn't reach. I wrap my hand around his cock, feeling its weight, its heat. His sharp intake of breath emboldens me.

"Show me what you like," I whisper.

He places his hand over mine, guiding me to stroke him with just the right pressure, just the right pace. I learn the sensitive spot just beneath the head that makes his breath hitch when I rub my thumb over it.

"That feels amazing," he groans. "But I want to be inside you again."

I lie back on the sofa, pulling him down with me. He settles between my legs, the head of his cock nudging at my entrance. This time, there's no urgency, no desperate rush. He enters me slowly, giving me time to adjust to his size.

When he's fully seated, we both pause, savoring the connection. His forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling. It's startlingly intimate, more intimate than anything we did last night.

"Okay?" he asks.

"More than okay," I reply.

He begins to move, setting a leisurely pace that builds the pleasure gradually. Each stroke is deliberate, his pubic bone grinding against my clit in a way that sends sparks up my spine. I wrap my legs around his waist, changing the angle so he hits that perfect spot deep inside me.

"You feel so good," he murmurs, his lips at my neck. "So tight and wet around my cock."

The dirty talk that would have shocked me yesterday now sends a fresh flood of arousal between my legs. I find myself responding in kind.

"Harder," I urge. "I want to feel you deeper."

He obliges, driving into me with more force, but still maintaining that controlled rhythm. It's nothing like the frantic coupling of last night—this is a conversation between our bodies, a give and take.

I feel another orgasm building, slower this time but no less powerful. "I'm close," I whisper against his ear.

He slips a hand between us, his fingers finding my clit. "Come with me," he says, his own rhythm starting to falter as he approaches his climax.

The added stimulation pushes me over the edge. I come with a keening cry, my inner walls clamping down on his cock. The sensation triggers his own release—he thrusts deep one final time, groaning my name as he pulses inside me.

We lie tangled together, catching our breath, neither of us willing to break the connection just yet. The morning sun has moved higher, bathing us both in golden light. In this moment, I feel a peace I've never known, a rightness that silences all my usual anxious thoughts.

Then we hear it—a sharp, metallic rattle from downstairs. The unmistakable sound of a key turning in the library's main lock.