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The library was supposed to be silent. Stacks of leather-bound books stretched high, lamps glowed dim, and the air carried the faint scent of dust and ink. But silence only made every small sound sharper.
Eva, twenty-five, had dressed with precision: black pencil skirt, white blouse buttoned neat, sheer black stockings running down her legs, seams straight as rules. She liked the discipline of it - the control, the ritual of pulling fabric taut over her skin.
But the stockings were fragile.
By mid-afternoon, after hours of rushing through stacks, kneeling for misplaced books, and leaning across counters, a small ladder had formed at the back of her thigh. A whisper of torn nylon, invisible to most, but to her it burned like a mark.
And to Marcus, thirty-four, the head librarian, it was impossible to ignore. He caught the detail when she climbed the rolling ladder to shelve books higher than her head - the way the nylon stretched, the way the seam pulled tighter, the way her skirt rode higher with each step.
When Eva reached down for another book, the ladder split further, ripping audibly in the quiet.
She froze. The sound cracked like thunder in the hush. Heads lifted from tables. Pages stilled mid-turn. The fragile stockings had betrayed her.
Marcus's gaze caught hers across the library floor, sharp, unflinching. His voice carried low, guttural, just enough for her to hear.
"They're tearing, Eva. And the whole room heard it."
Her breath caught, her lips trembling into a shameless smile. "Then maybe... I'll let them."
Eva, twenty-five, had dressed with precision: black pencil skirt, white blouse buttoned neat, sheer black stockings running down her legs, seams straight as rules. She liked the discipline of it - the control, the ritual of pulling fabric taut over her skin.
But the stockings were fragile.
By mid-afternoon, after hours of rushing through stacks, kneeling for misplaced books, and leaning across counters, a small ladder had formed at the back of her thigh. A whisper of torn nylon, invisible to most, but to her it burned like a mark.
And to Marcus, thirty-four, the head librarian, it was impossible to ignore. He caught the detail when she climbed the rolling ladder to shelve books higher than her head - the way the nylon stretched, the way the seam pulled tighter, the way her skirt rode higher with each step.
When Eva reached down for another book, the ladder split further, ripping audibly in the quiet.
She froze. The sound cracked like thunder in the hush. Heads lifted from tables. Pages stilled mid-turn. The fragile stockings had betrayed her.
Marcus's gaze caught hers across the library floor, sharp, unflinching. His voice carried low, guttural, just enough for her to hear.
"They're tearing, Eva. And the whole room heard it."
Her breath caught, her lips trembling into a shameless smile. "Then maybe... I'll let them."
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