Not over complicate things

Eli still had his face in his hands when Emily crouched in front of him, her skirt clinging damply to her thighs, hoodie folded over her arm, and the cool, sharp energy of post-orgasm pragmatism in her eyes.

“This is stupid,” she said. “We’re making this harder than it has to be.”

Eli looked up, blinking.

“You’re wearing the hoodie.”

He blinked again.

“You’re going to take my keys,” she continued, already digging into her purse and handing him the little keychain with a faded rubber flamingo, “and you’re going to go to my car.”

“Okay…”

“You’ll find my blazer in the back seat. Light blue, missing the front button.”

“Won’t it be—?”

“Yes, it barely stayed closed even before I had a baby. But that’s not the point.”

She picked up the hoodie, slapped it lightly against his bare chest, and grinned. “It’s something. I’ll take the ripped shirt and drape the entire side over my chest, tuck it under the blazer. It’ll look like a weird wrap top. Who’s going to question it? It’s the library. People wear worse.”

Eli pulled the hoodie over his head—no shirt beneath—and let it fall down his torso. It hung a little loose, enough to hide the fact that he was still flushed and half-wrecked under the fabric. The stolen panties were still tucked in the pocket. He zipped it up.

“You really think it’ll work?”

“Good enough to get me to my car without flashing someone,” she said, tucking her ruined blouse under her arm like it was just a scarf or something. “That’s all I need.”

Eli gave a shaky nod.

Emily stepped up close, lifted a hand, and gripped the front of the hoodie. Her fingers brushed the zipper.

She leaned in, kissed him—warm, slow, messy from the dried edge of her lip gloss and the salt of her sweat. Her mouth lingered against his, her breath soft.

When she pulled back, her eyes were still locked on his.

“If you don’t come back,” she said quietly, “you’re going to miss out on the chance of us doing that again.”

Eli’s pupils dilated so hard they might’ve swallowed his soul.

He nodded—tight, fast—and turned, hoodie zipped, keys in hand.

Emily watched him go, then exhaled and looked down at the soft ruined mess of her white blouse, still damp with sweat and musk and tension.

She shook it once, sighed, and began folding it in a way that would cover one breast, if she held her arm just right. Maybe.

The blazer would do the rest.

Not perfect.

But good enough.