Bluffing...again

Emily drew in a shaky breath, fingers clutching the torn edge of her blouse and the paperback pressed tightly against her chest. It wasn’t doing much. The book was narrow, her breasts full, and the position awkward—more a gesture than any real cover. Her skin felt like it was burning, flushed from collarbone to belly. Still, the boy just stood there, gawky and stricken, his mouth working silently like he’d forgotten how to form words.

She had to do something.

Bluffing had worked earlier. With Martin in his office. She’d kept her tone even, acted like nothing was wrong, and he’d gotten flustered enough to leave her alone.

Maybe it would work now.

She fought down the blush crawling up her neck—failed, really—and lifted her chin anyway. Her arm didn’t quite manage to shield her; the torn blouse hung too wide, her hand holding it at an angle that only partially crossed one breast. Her nipples, still stiff, peeked out just over the top edge of the paperback. The exposure was undeniable. Unavoidable.

But she looked him in the eye.

“They’re just breasts,” she said. Or tried to. Her voice came out breathier than she meant, catching a little halfway through.

She cleared her throat. Tried again. “You’ve seen some before, right?”

The boy blinked, swallowed, and—adorably—his ears turned red.

“Not… like… in real life,” he mumbled. “Just… videos. I mean. Online. Not—uh, not like this.”

Emily’s mouth parted, then closed. That… surprised her.

He wasn’t unattractive. Not really. Just unpolished. Tall, definitely—at least six feet, maybe more. Slim in that still-growing way, limbs a little too long for his frame. But he had a sweet face. Clear skin. The glasses were cute. Soft brown hair that curled just slightly where it peeked under the edge of his hoodie. He’d probably look better if he stopped slouching—shoulders hunched, chin down like he was trying to make himself smaller. And that hoodie…

God, that hoodie did him no favors.

Washed out and shapeless, some faded math joke on the front, sleeves pushed halfway up bony forearms.

Still.

It was a hoodie.

Thick. Baggy. And most importantly—wearable.

Her brain made the leap before she could stop it, piecing together what came next. She couldn’t walk back through the library like this. Her shirt was destroyed, and the wet bra in her car was out of the question. There was no jacket. No baggy purse. No help coming.

Unless…

She exhaled.

“Can I…” she hesitated, then gestured vaguely toward him, her cheeks still burning, “borrow your hoodie?”