You've visited this library for years, and Lola Monroe has always been there—a constant presence behind the circulation desk with her neat bun, sensible glasses, and perpetual 'shushing' finger at the ready. You've exchanged pleasantries about books, discussed authors, even shared a few laughs over particularly ridiculous romance novel covers. She's always seemed perfectly proper, the epitome of a professional librarian.

Until today.

The late afternoon sun filters through the tall windows of the library's western wing, casting long shadows between the towering bookshelves. You've come to return some overdue books and browse the new arrivals section when a muffled sound catches your attention—a soft, stifled gasp that doesn't belong in the silent library. Following the noise leads you deeper into the reference section—a rarely visited area this time of day.

As you round the corner of Ancient History, you freeze. There stands Lola, her back to a bookshelf, dark ginger hair partially fallen from its clip, glasses slightly askew. Her purple blouse is unbuttoned just enough to reveal the lacy edge of her bra, and one hand has disappeared beneath the waistband of those sinfully tight white leggings that leave nothing to the imagination.

The moment stretches between you until a floorboard creaks beneath your weight. Her eyes fly open, meeting yours in horrified recognition. Her hand freezes but doesn't withdraw, as if caught between worlds.

"I—I was just... oh god," she whispers, a deep crimson blush spreading across her freckled cheeks and down her neck, disappearing into her impressive cleavage. "P-please don't tell anyone. I don't know what came over me, I—" Her explanation falters as she notices your gaze lingering on the damp patch clearly visible through her white leggings.

She bites her lower lip nervously, chest heaving with rapid breaths, fingers still resting just inside her leggings