Chapter 1: Study Session: Arousal and Forbidden Questions
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry wasps trapped in glass, casting a sickly glow over Winston’s biology textbook. Michelle sat across from him, twirling a strand of fiery red hair around her finger, her green eyes locked onto his face instead of the notes spread between them. "So," she said, voice dropping to a whisper that slithered under his skin, "does she, like, get you?"
Winston adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers, the Krebs cycle diagram blurring before him. "Get me how?" he muttered, flipping a page too hard. The sound cracked through the quiet study area like a gunshot.
Michelle leaned forward, her vanilla-and-spice perfume wrapping around him as her curls tumbled over her shoulder. "You know," she breathed, tracing the edge of the table with one fingertip, "does she get your... intellectual curiosity? Your hunger?" The last word lingered between them, sticky and deliberate.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly sandpaper. "We talk," he managed, gripping his pen like it could anchor him.
She snorted, delicate and derisive. "Talking’s cute. But does she explore with you?" Her knee brushed his under the table, just for a second. "Does she make you question everything you thought you knew about... pleasure?"
Winston slammed the textbook shut. "Michelle," he hissed, knuckles white, "what the hell are you doing?"
She blinked, all wide-eyed innocence. "Helping you study!" A smirk played at her lips as she tapped a chapter heading. "Relationships are totally relevant to the midterm. Emotionally stable people have better mitochondria, or whatever."
"Not like this." He dragged a hand through his dark hair, heartbeat thundering in his ears. He knew this game—her Instagram DMs had been a minefield of winking emojis and hypothetical questions about his sex life for weeks.
Michelle sighed dramatically, snatching his highlighter and circling "mitochondria" with a flourish. "Fine. Let’s discuss organelles." She tilted her head, lips quirking. "Are you satisfied with yours, Winston? Do they... perform?"
He glared. "You’re impossible."
"Yet here you are," she purred, leaning closer, "still talking to me." Her grin was all teeth. "Tell me—what does your girlfriend do that makes you feel alive?"
Winston glanced around at the other students, their heads bent obliviously over books. "This isn’t okay," he muttered. "I have a girlfriend."
"Who thinks the Krebs cycle is a Peloton class," Michelle shot back, rolling her eyes. "Face it, Winston. You’re dating a textbook." She tapped his chest with the highlighter. "And you? You’re a hands-on learner."
He stood so fast his chair clattered to the floor. "I need air," he choked out, shoving his things into his bag.
Michelle watched him flee, satisfaction curling through her. She flipped open his abandoned textbook, running a finger over the neon-yellow circle around mitochondria. "Powerhouse of the cell," she murmured. "And such a shame to waste it." The library’s silence pressed in around her, thick with possibility. She stretched, catlike, and reached for her phone.
Missed a spot in your notes, she texted him, attaching a photo of the circled word. Let me know when you’re ready to study...properly.
Somewhere across campus, Winston’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn
’t check it. He was too busy trying to remember how to breathe normally while pacing behind the library like a caged animal. His heart hammered against his ribs—thumpthumpthump—like it wanted out. The text notification flashed again. And again.
Michelle.
Of course it was Michelle.
He yanked the phone out, thumb hovering over the screen. The preview of her message glared up at him: Missed a spot in your notes...
"Fuck," he muttered, shoving the phone back into his pocket. It burned against his thigh.
He should ignore it.
He would ignore it.
But then his fingers were moving on their own, unlocking the screen, opening the message. The photo she’d sent—that goddamn circled word—taunted him. Mitochondria.
His reply was stiff, too formal: I’m good. Thanks.
Send.
Instant regret.
Three dots appeared immediately.
No worries! Didn’t mean to stress you out. Just trying to make studying fun :)
Winston exhaled. Maybe she wasn’t playing games. Maybe he’d overreacted.
It’s okay, he typed. Just stressed about the midterm. He added a nervous-face emoji, then immediately hated himself for it.
Her response came fast: Tell me about it! Bio is the worst. So…how’s things with Lisa?
His thumb froze.
Trap.
Definite trap.
But the weight of four years of nothing pressed down on him.
It’s…complicated, he admitted.
Complicated how?
The question pulsed on his screen. He could practically hear Michelle’s voice—that low, teasing lilt.
He shouldn’t answer.
He definitely shouldn’t answer.
But his fingers moved anyway.
She’s just…not very adventurous.
The second he hit send, he wanted to throw his phone into the nearest sewer.
Michelle’s reply was instant. Adventurous how? Like, sexually?
A devil emoji winked at him.
Winston’s face burned. His pulse roared in his ears.
This was bad.
This was so bad.
But his body hummed with something dangerously close to excitement.
Yeah, he typed. I guess so.
The three dots bounced.
Then—
OMG, Winston. I can’t believe I’m saying this but…I’m a virgin.
He blinked.
Read it again.
Michelle? Virgin?
No way, he fired back.
Way! she replied. And it’s so frustrating! My boyfriend, Brent, is sweet but he’s totally clueless. I want someone who can, like, teach me things, you know? Someone not afraid to explore.
Winston’s mouth went dry.
His fingers trembled.
The words spilled out before he could stop them:
Wait…you’re a virgin? No way…I’m a virgin too.
Silence.
Then—
WHAT.
Michelle’s disbelief vibrated through his phone.
You’re 24. You’ve been with Lisa for FOUR YEARS.
Winston swallowed hard.
Yeah, he typed. We just…never got around to it.
The lie tasted bitter.
The truth—that Lisa recoiled every time he touched her—was worse.
Michelle’s next message made his stomach flip:
Wow. So we’re both stuck with lame partners who don’t appreciate us.
Winston stared at the text, Michelle’s words burning through the screen. His fingers hovered—should he correct her? Lisa wasn’t lame. Lisa was…safe. Predictable. Boring as hell in bed, but that wasn’t her fault.
A devil emoji winked at him.
Then another message: Okay, real talk.
His stomach dropped.
I’m, like, super curious about sex. Never done it, but I think about it all the time.
The library air grew thick, suddenly too warm. Winston loosened his collar, pulse hammering in his throat. This was crossing a line. He should shut it down.
But his traitorous thumbs typed: Yeah?
Michelle’s reply came fast: I know this is probably TMI, but…
He held his breath.
Whenever I watch porn, my vagina tingles like crazy.
Winston choked on nothing. A nearby student glanced over; he ducked his head, face burning. The words glowed on his screen, obscene under the sterile library lights.
It gets so wet when I see other people doing it.
His jeans tightened. Fuck.
It looks like so much fun, she continued, merciless. And when I see a close-up of a cock slamming into a vagina?
Winston’s grip on his phone turned white-knuckled.
I get so hot. I can’t help it.
Silence. The hum of the AC, the rustle of pages—everything faded under the roar of blood in his ears. He was hard now, painfully so, and furious at himself for it.
Wow, Michelle. That’s…a lot.
He added a nervous-face emoji like a coward.
I know, I know. Sorry if that was too much. A pause. Then: You seemed like someone I could be honest with.
Winston exhaled. The weight of her trust—or was it manipulation?—settled on his chest.
So, she typed, how do you feel about sex, Winston?
He swallowed. The truth lodged in his throat like a stone.
It’s…complicated.
Bullshit.
I guess I’m curious too, he admitted. But also kind of scared.
Scared of what? The pleasure?
The question hung there, sharp as a blade. Then the final blow:
Why haven’t you had sex, Winston?
The phone slipped in his sweaty palm. Around him, the library stood still—a monument to knowledge, to restraint. And here he was, unraveling under the gaze of a girl who saw right through him.
He had no good answer.
Lisa didn’t want to.
He was afraid to ask.
Afraid she’d say yes.
Afraid he’d be terrible at it.
Afraid it would change everything.
The cursor blinked, waiting. His thumbs moved.
I don’t know.
Weak. Pathetic.
Michelle’s reply was instant:
Let’s find out.
The three words glowed on Winston’s screen like a neon sign in the dark. His fingers twitched—halfway between slamming his phone down and typing something catastrophically stupid. The library’s quiet hum of turning pages and whispered study groups suddenly felt deafening. Someone coughed. A chair scraped. Normal sounds in a world that had just tilted sideways.
He glanced around. No one was looking. No one cared. Just another student sweating over midterms, not a guy currently debating whether to torpedo his four-year relationship over a redhead who smelled like trouble and Christmas cookies.
His thumbs moved before his brain could veto them:
That’s not funny.
Lie. It was hilarious. And terrifying. And the most alive he’d felt in months.
Michelle’s response came fast:
Who’s laughing?
A beat. Then:
You’re the one who brought it up, Mr. I-Wonder-What-Sex-Feels-Like.
Winston exhaled through his nose. The biology textbook sat forgotten, its pages splayed open to a diagram of reproductive anatomy. Irony wasn’t subtle today.
He typed, deleted, typed again:
We shouldn’t—
Shouldn’t what? Talk? Michelle fired back. Too late for that. You started this. Now man up and admit what you want.
The phone burned in his palm. What did he want? Lisa’s predictable goodnight pecks? Or the way Michelle’s knee had brushed his under the table—casual as a hand grenade rolling into his lap?
His fingers betrayed him:
You’re impossible.
And yet you’re still texting me.
A laugh escaped him—sharp, startled. A girl at the next table glared. Winston ducked his head, but his ribs felt too tight, his skin too warm. Michelle was a lit match, and he was gasoline in a human suit.
His phone buzzed again:
Meet me.
Where?
The stacks. 3rd floor.
Winston’s pulse stuttered. The old library stacks were practically a urban legend—narrow, dusty, and most importantly, deserted. A place where overdue books went to die… and where, according to campus lore, at least three pregnancies had started.
He should say no.
He should walk away.
He should—
His thumbs moved:
5 minutes.
Michelle’s reply was a single emoji: 🔥
Winston shoved his textbook into his bag, the pages crumpling. His hands shook. This was a mistake. A spectacular, possibly relationship-ending mistake.
He stood.
He went.
The third floor smelled like dust and decades-old paper. The lights flickered, half the bulbs dead. Somewhere in the shadows, a floorboard creaked.
"Lost, Winston?"
Michelle leaned against Philosophy Section, her red curls a shock of color against the gray shelves. She’d unbuttoned her top one extra notch. A freckle peeked out.
Winston’s mouth went dry. "We can’t—"
"Can’t what?" She stepped closer. Vanilla and spice. "Talk about biology?" Her fingers walked up his chest. "Hypothetically?"
He caught her wrist. Her pulse jumped under his thumb. Fast. "This isn’t hypothetical."
"No shit." She grinned. "So. Still wondering what sex feels like?"
The air between them crackled. Winston’s grip tightened.
His phone buzzed in his pocket—Lisa’s ringtone.
They froze.
Michelle arched a brow. "Going to get that?"
Winston swallowed.
He silenced the call.
Michelle’s smile turned lethal. "Guess that answers that." She backed him into the stacks, her hands flat on his chest. The shelves groaned. Somewhere, a book fell with a thud.
Winston’s last coherent thought before her mouth crashed into his:
I’m so fucked.
Literally.
Michelle pulled back just as Winston’s hands found the curve of her waist, her lips swollen from his. The dim library lights caught the mischief in her green eyes. "Before this goes any further," she whispered, pressing a single finger to his lips when he tried to chase her mouth, "call Lisa."
Winston blinked, dazed. "What? Now?" His voice cracked. Somewhere in the stacks, a book thudded to the floor—probably Nietzsche judging him.
"Yeah, now," Michelle insisted, stepping back just enough to make his skin ache. She tucked a wild curl behind her ear, the movement casual, but her gaze was sharp. "Otherwise she’ll freak that you ignored her call and turn into a stage-five clinger. Trust me." A wry smile. "I used to be like her."
Winston dragged a hand down his face. The ghost of her vanilla-spice perfume still clung to his shirt. "But—"
"No buts." Michelle flipped open her biology textbook with a decisive snap. "Look, I actually need help with this mitochondria bullshit. We can study, you can keep Lisa off your back, and maybe—" she traced a slow circle on the page, "—we pick up where we left off later. Win-fucking-win."
Winston exhaled hard. His phone weighed a thousand pounds in his pocket. "What do I even say?"
Michelle leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. "Tell her you’re studying with a friend." Her teeth grazed his lobe. "Then send her pictures of your notes like a good little boy." She pulled back, grinning at his shudder. "Proof you’re not fucking around. Literally."
The call to Lisa was a masterclass in guilt. "Hey babe—no, just studying with a friend from class—yeah, super boring—" Winston mouthed help me at Michelle, who silently cackled while highlighting an entire page neon pink.
"Mitochondria," Michelle announced the second he hung up, stabbing her highlighter at the textbook. "Explain it like I’m five and this isn’t putting me to sleep."
Two hours later, Winston’s notes were a work of art—color-coded, diagram-heavy, and photographed no less than six times for Lisa’s "proof." Michelle had, against all odds, absorbed enough biology to explain oxidative phosphorylation in a way that almost made sense.
"You’re weirdly good at this," Winston admitted, watching her connect glycolysis to the Krebs cycle with a series of increasingly obscene arrows.
Michelle smirked. "I’m weirdly good at lots of things." She stretched, her shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of pale stomach. "But my brain’s officially fried. Also, Lisa’s asleep—" she nodded at Winston’s silent phone, "—and I need a drink."
Winston hesitated. The cannabis bar around the corner was a notorious hookup spot. Michelle rolled her eyes. "Relax, Casanova. One drink. To celebrate not failing our midterms." She stood, slinging her bag over one shoulder. "Unless you’re scared?"
"Fuck you," Winston said, shoving his chair back.
Michelle’s grin was all teeth. "Maybe later."
Winston's fingers twitched toward Michelle's hip as they stepped into the cannabis bar's neon glow, the bass from inside vibrating through his shoes. Lisa's last text—Did you eat?—burned in his pocket like a lit cigarette. Michelle kicked a crumpled Red Bull can into the gutter. "Professor Hendrick's comb-over looked like a dead ferret today," she announced, "which, honestly? Improvement."
The bar smelled like spilled IPA and the acrid tang of vaped THC oil. A bartender with a septum ring slid two murky lemonades across the sticky counter. "Study sesh or sex sesh?" she asked, winking at Michelle's smudged eyeliner. Michelle licked salt off the rim. "Porque no los dos?"
Winston's first sip tasted like battery acid and Christmas trees. "Jesus," he coughed, watching Michelle drain half her glass in one go. Her throat worked as she swallowed, a drop escaping down her collarbone. She caught him staring. "What?" she grinned, "Never seen a girl ingest drugs before?"
Twenty minutes later, the THC unspooled Winston's nerves like a dropped sweater. He laughed—actually laughed—when Michelle reenacted her high school health teacher demonstrating condom use on a banana. "And then," she wheezed, clutching his forearm, "she licked it—for hydration—" Their knees knocked under the table. The bar lights haloed Michelle's frizzing curls in pink.
"You're staring," Michelle sing-songed, swirling her straw. Winston blinked. "How'd you get like this?" The words tumbled out before his brain could censor them. "Like... a fucking siren in a crop top."
Michelle's grin turned sharp. "Oh, Winston," she crooned, kicking his shin, "are you asking how I discovered the miracle of masturbation?" A nearby frat boy choked on his joint.
"It's not—" Winston's ears burned "—I mean, yeah, actually."
Michelle stretched, her shirt riding up to reveal the soft dip of her navel. "I always liked how my vagina felt when I touched it," she said, as casually as discussing the weather. "Like... a secret button that makes your whole body hum." She took a thoughtful sip. "Figured it'd be even better if someone else pressed it."
Winston's lemonade slipped in his sweaty grip.
"When I was six," Michelle continued, tracing wet circles on the table, "I stripped naked at a pool party. Got halfway to the diving board before my mom rugby-tackled me." She smirked at Winston's strangled noise. "What? Skinny-dipping's efficient."
The THC curled through Winston's veins, painting lurid images—Michelle at twelve, sneaking into the boys' locker room; Michelle at sixteen, grinding on some faceless jock at a basement rave. His knee bounced under the table.
Lisa had once cried because he'd seen her nipple during an awkward bra change.
Michelle leaned in, her breath sweet with artificial lemon. "You're thinking," she accused, poking his forehead. "About her."
Winston caught her wrist. The pulse under his thumb raced. "I'm thinking," he said slowly, "about how you'd look in my bed."
Michelle's pupils swallowed her irises. "Prove it."
The lemonade glass tipped over, forgotten, as Winston stood. Michelle's chair screeched back. Somewhere, a phone buzzed—Lisa's ringtone—but the sound dissolved into the bar's cacophony. Michelle's fingers laced through his, tugging him toward the exit.
The night air hit like a slap. Winston spun Michelle into the alley's shadows, her back meeting brick. Her laugh was pure adrenaline. "Finally," she gasped, as his mouth found her throat, her jaw, her—
A car horn blared. They broke apart, panting. Michelle's lipstick smeared across his chin like a wound.
Winston's phone vibrated again. And again.
Lisa's name flashed.
Michelle watched him, chest rising fast. "Well?" she said, raw and challenge-bright. "Who's she gonna be tonight?" She pressed her palm to his crotch. "Mom or mistress?"
Winston exhaled shakily.
The phone buzzed in his hand like a live grenade. Lisa's name flashed accusingly across the screen, the call notification vibrating against his palm still damp from Michelle's touch.
Michelle smirked, licking a smear of lipstick off her teeth. "Answer it," she purred, leaning back against the brick wall with deliberate casualness. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her shirt, exposing a sliver of toned stomach. "Unless you're scared?"
He swiped accept before the fourth ring. "Hey," he rasped, voice still rough from their kiss. The alley smelled like weed and garbage, suddenly claustrophobic.
"Where are you?" Lisa's voice crackled through the speaker—sharp, clinical. Not a question. A demand. Winston could picture her in her blue scrubs, still smelling like hospital antiseptic.
His eyes darted to Michelle, who mouthed 'library' with exaggerated innocence while rolling down her skirt. "Uh, just...at the library," he lied. The words tasted like cheap lemonade and guilt.
"I got off early," Lisa announced. The rustle of her scrubs came through the phone as she moved. "I'm heading over. I have wine. And a surprise." The last word curled with promise.
Winston hesitated. Michelle arched a brow, slowly dragging her tongue across her bottom lip. His grip tightened on the phone.
Lisa's tone turned brittle. "What's wrong? You sound...distant." A pause. "You are excited to see me, right?" The unspoken 'unlike last time' hung between them.
"Yeah! Totally. Great," Winston blurted, too loud. Michelle snorted, covering her mouth.
"Okay," Lisa relented, though her voice still carried an edge. "See you in thirty minutes." The call died abruptly.
Winston stared at the darkened screen. "Well," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "I have to go."
Michelle rolled her eyes so hard her head lolled back. "Christ, does she track your location too? Poor thing," she sighed, pushing off the wall. Her fingers brushed his chest as she straightened his collar. "Run along, Casanova. Wouldn't want to keep Princess Waiting."
He didn't argue. Didn't look back. Just sprinted toward his apartment, Lisa's promised 'surprise' looming like a guillotine.
---
The next morning, Winston's head throbbed in time with Lisa's blow-dryer. He squinted at his biology notes, the words swimming. Lisa emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of vanilla body spray.
"We need to be at the hospital by nine," she announced, clipping on earrings. "Cousin Mark's gallbladder surgery got moved up."
Winston blinked. "Wait, today? I have a midterm—"
Lisa cut him off with a look. "It's outpatient. We'll only be there seven hours max." She tossed his shoes at him. "Wear these. The ones you have on smell like a bar."
---
Seven hours.
Seven. Goddamn. Hours.
Winston slumped in the waiting room chair, watching Lisa's aunts ignore him in favor of debating gallbladder diets. The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry hornets. His untouched coffee grew cold.
Lisa elbowed him during the third hour. "You're sulking," she hissed.
"I'm studying," Winston muttered, flipping a notecard.
Lisa snatched it away. "This is what you do for family." Her nails dug into his thigh. "Act like you care."
Across the room, Cousin Mark groaned dramatically into his Jell-O. Winston fantasized about throwing himself into the OR.
"Thrilled," he deadpanned. "Best day ever."
Lisa's smile could've frozen hell. "Glad we agree."
The clock ticked. Winston's soul left his body around hour five.
"