FORBIDDEN STUDY SESSIONS

Chapter 3: Cracks in the Routine

The morning after that charged library session, I woke up in my dorm room with my mind still replaying Victor’s low voice and that commanding look. Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, hitting my desk piled with books. I pushed my glasses up and sat up, my tank top clinging a bit from the restless night.

My roommate, Sarah, was already up, humming while she made coffee in our tiny shared kitchenette. She was the outgoing type, always dragging me to events I usually skipped. “Betty, you look like you barely slept. That project partner's been keeping you up?” she asked with a grin, handing me a mug.

I took it, feeling my cheeks warm. “It’s just work. Victor’s… intense.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Victor Kane? Girl, be careful. He’s hot but trouble. Half the campus has stories.”

We chatted while I got ready. My other roommate, Mia, stumbled in from her night class, complaining about a tough exam. Living with them grounded me. We balanced each other, me with my quiet study habits, them pulling me into late pizza runs and gossip sessions. Campus life wasn’t all books. There were the crowded dining halls, the early morning jogs around the quad, the constant buzz of notifications about club meetings or rugby games.

I headed to my first class, Introduction to Victorian Literature. The lecture hall was packed, seats filling fast with students sipping coffee and whispering. Professor Hale droned on about social constraints in Brontë’s world, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. I sat midway up, notebook open, pen moving quickly. My short skirt rode up slightly as I crossed my legs, but I focused on the notes.

Halfway through, my shoulders tightened from hunching over. I stretched my arms up without thinking, arching my back a little to ease the knot. That’s when it happened. Two buttons on my blouse popped open from the pressure. My big breasts strained against the fabric, and my bra came into view, lace edges showing along with deep cleavage on full display in the bright lecture lights.

A few guys in the row below turned immediately, eyes widening. One nudged his friend, murmuring something I couldn’t hear but could guess. Whispers spread like ripples. More heads turned, not just the boys in front, but a couple behind me too. I felt their stares crawling over my chest, lingering way too long. My face burned. Brilliant, shy Betty, the girl who hid behind books and glasses, suddenly exposed in the middle of class. I crossed my arms quickly over my chest, but it only pushed things together more. A quiet chuckle came from somewhere in the back row.

Professor Hale paused mid-sentence. Her eyes scanned the room and landed on me. She adjusted her glasses, clearly noticing the open buttons and the way my breasts were practically spilling out. “Miss Thompson, is everything alright?” she asked, her tone sharp but with a hint of surprise. The whole class went quieter. Some students shifted in their seats to get a better look. One guy in the front row didn’t even pretend to look away, his mouth slightly open. Another whispered to his buddy, “Damn, look at that.”

I wanted the floor to swallow me. “Yes, Professor. Just… a wardrobe issue,” I mumbled, voice small. Heat flooded my neck and cheeks. Professor Hale cleared her throat, continuing the lecture on restraint and desire in the novels, but her gaze flicked back to me a couple times. The boys kept stealing glances, some bold enough to stare openly during the next slide. My heart hammered. Part of me felt mortified, the shy side wanting to disappear. But another tiny, hidden part felt a strange rush from the attention, all those eyes on my body. I pushed the thought away fast and hunched forward, trying to fix the buttons under my arms without drawing more notice.

The lecture dragged on like that. Professor Hale discussed how characters hid their true feelings behind proper manners, her words hitting too close. Every time I shifted, more whispers came. A guy two rows down kept turning his head. By the end of the section, I couldn’t take it anymore. I excused myself midway through, mumbling about needing the restroom. Heart pounding, I hurried down the hall, fixing my blouse as best I could in the dimmer corridor light. The bathroom was empty, cool tiles under my shoes. I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the buttons with shaky hands, pushing my glasses up. My reflection showed flushed cheeks and that hint of curves I usually hid under loose sweaters. Why today, of all days?

I took a deep breath, ready to slip back out and rejoin class quietly. But as I pushed the door open, a strong hand grabbed mine. Victor. He was there, like he’d been waiting. His grip was firm but not rough, pulling me back inside. He shut the door behind us with a soft click, the lock turning.

“Victor, what are you—” I started, voice low.

He stood close, towering in the small space, his rugby hoodie brushing my arm. “Saw you in there. Couldn’t let you walk back like that without saying something.”