Sofia froze, her fingers still brushing Miller's cheek. His heavy breathing, his gaze filled with a mix of shock and desire, burned into her. And then it hit her—not shame over what others might think, but something deeper, inexplicable. The emotions she had kept under control surged forth like a river breaking through a dam. She wanted him, yes, but what she had done wasn't just desire—it was a loss of herself, a plunge into an abyss where she no longer recognized her own feelings. Her heart pounded, her cheeks flushed, and a knot of panic grew in her chest. The shame of throwing herself at him, of letting those feelings take over, tightened her throat.
"Sofia," Miller's voice, hoarse and low, broke into her thoughts. He tried to stand, adjusting his trousers, his hand reaching for her. "We need to talk. This… we've gone too far."
The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them, seeing the desperation and shame in her eyes. He wanted to reassure her, to take it back, but the words wouldn't come.
She already knew she'd crossed every line. Flirting was one thing; losing control to the point of throwing herself at a man without even asking for his consent (though she was certain he wanted it—she was sure of it) was entirely another. She was scared of her own feelings, capable of driving her to such actions. And now he was trying to lecture her about propriety? To shame her? What was he, some kind of Eugene Onegin? It was bitter and painful to hear. She had hoped for a different reaction, that her bold move would shatter his defenses, that he'd forget his foolish sense of propriety and let himself feel alive—she knew he could. Or at the very least, that he'd say thank you… Five minutes ago, he clearly wanted it as much as she did, enjoyed it as much as she did. And now he was putting up barricades again? To hell with him… She wanted to be far away, to hide, to not see him.
"No need," Sofia said quietly but firmly. She stepped back toward the door, her legs barely obeying, the wet panties still clinging to her skin, intensifying her sense of vulnerability. "I… I shouldn't have done this."
"Sofia, wait!" Miller tried to fix the situation, stepping forward, but she had already grabbed her backpack and yanked the door open. His outstretched hand hung in the air. The door swung wide, letting in the cold corridor air that stung her flushed face.
She ran out, not looking back. Her footsteps echoed in the empty corridor of the old building. Her heart raced as if it might burst from her chest. The shame of throwing herself at him, of letting those feelings break free, mixed with horror: what was that? Why couldn't she stop? She had always been the one to tease, to play, but under that table, she wasn't playing—she was drowning in her own emotions, and it terrified her to the point of trembling.
Outside, she jumped onto her bike, ignoring the shaking in her legs. The evening air was colder, but her skin still burned. She pedaled without thinking about direction, just to get away—away from Miller, from what she felt, from herself. The wind stung her face, her hair whipped her cheeks, but her thoughts wouldn't let go: how could she lose herself like that? This wasn't just attraction—it was something more…
She stopped by the river, a couple of kilometers from the university. Her bike fell onto the grass, and Sofia collapsed beside it, breathing heavily. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her face.
"What's wrong with me?" she whispered, and tears she couldn't hold back streamed down, leaving hot trails on her cheeks. She wasn't afraid of him or the consequences—she was afraid of herself, of her feelings, which had proven stronger than she was.