It started in the most ordinary place: the backroom of a small-town library. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, shelves lined with dusty hardcovers leaning slightly, the air carrying the scent of paper and old wood polish. To anyone outside, it looked like two coworkers finishing late-night inventory. But inside, something else burned.
Marianne was fifty-two, a woman who had spent half her life working here, known in town for her strict bun, her sharp tongue, and the skirts she wore like armor. She wasn’t the type people imagined in whispers. She had a husband at home who watched TV with the volume too loud, grown children who only called on holidays, and a reputation for keeping things proper.
And yet… tonight she wasn’t proper. Tonight she was leaning too close to Daniel.
Daniel was twenty-six, fresh out of grad school, hired part-time to help with the archives. He was tall, soft-eyed, with a smile that came too easily. He respected Marianne—or at least pretended to. But there was no mistaking how often his gaze lingered when she bent to shelve books, or how he seemed to always find excuses to brush past her in the narrow aisles.
They weren’t supposed to be working alone. But when the others left early, neither suggested calling it a night.
The moment happened fast, almost clumsy. She was reaching across the table, passing him a heavy volume, when the hem of her skirt snagged against the corner of the wooden chair. She tugged once—nothing. Tugged again—still stuck. Daniel stood quickly, stepping behind her.
“Careful,” he murmured, crouching low, his hand brushing her thigh as he tried to free the fabric. The contact was accidental, maybe. But the warmth of his skin against hers made her freeze.
Her pulse hammered in her throat. She should have swatted his hand away, scolded him, insisted she could manage on her own. Instead, she let her hands rest on the edge of the table, steadying herself as his fingers worked dangerously close to the bare skin above her knee.
