I have twenty-four hours before we go to print.

I've written a few last-minute articles before, usually because an underclassman would drop the ball, and as a section editor, I'd have to rush to fill the open slot. But this is different. This isn't a random fluff piece; this is arguably the most important article I've ever written.

It's also the best article I've ever written.

The most sincere.

The most powerful.

It poured out of me the second I sat down at this table, nestled in the back on the sixth floor of the library where no one ever really wanders. I've been surrounded by bookshelves brimming with the greatest works of the past few centuries as I typed away on my laptop, fueled by the fear, the anger, and most importantly, the determination to write something that matters. To throw my voice out into the world and hope that it's heard, even if it's only a few USW students who are listening.

Paige, my amazing editor-in-chief, was more than a little shocked when I emailed her asking if she had any space left for a last-minute article. I was fully prepared for her to turn me down since we were hours away from sending to print, but she didn't. She gave me ten hours to send over the article, and looking at the clock now, I have three left.

My article is done. Well, nearly.

I'm still waiting to hear back from one of the women I emailed early this morning. I was able to find a few female interns who were working at USASN around the time Marina St. Clair was in grad school. When she was here for the Q&A, she mentioned that she'd heard about Greg Bradshaw's infamous reputation for trading opportunities and promotions to his female interns for sexual favors, which means, if an intern were working at USASN at that time, they'd probably know about it.

Thanks to my sleuthing skills, I managed to find two women, both of whom I sent emails to ask if they'd be willing to give a quote for my article. One woman, Rei Torres, replied a few hours later, but aside from agreeing that she'd also heard accusations that USASN was known for letting wildly inappropriate incidents slide, she didn't have anything specific she could offer. Except for one thing—a name. Brenda Morgan.

She explained that Brenda was on set the day Bradshaw lost access to the Olympic Women's swimming team. She's one of the only people who actually know what happened that day. I knew the moment I read the email that it was a long shot, but three mocha coffees deep, I was practically vibrating in my seat as I typed out the email to her because if I had a quote from her, it would change everything. I would have a statement from an eyewitness, someone who saw firsthand the kind of things Greg Bradshaw has been accused of by so many women. If I had a quote from Brenda Morgan, I wouldn't just be writing an article; I'd be writing an exposé.

But even without Brenda's account of that day, my article is still strong. Everything I need to back up my claims was broadcasted on Twitter and live television a few days ago. The Danielle Young situation is evidence enough of USASN's misogynistic culture, and those tweets, those hashtags, they're just proof of the incredibly flawed values perpetuated by the company and those who are in positions of power within it.

This article might never be taken seriously. It might be skimmed over before being tossed into one of the trash cans scattered across campus. It might only live on in the USW newspaper archive, kept but easily forgotten. Or it could be the first touch of the black stain threatening to sully my career. It could be what defines me as the woman who doesn't keep her head down; the woman who clears away the self-righteous smoke disguising those who revel in witch-hunting, exposing those who set fire to others just to watch them burn.

My cheek twitches at the thought. Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing. I've been playing with fire for so long it's turned into a friend, licking at my feet, constantly reminding me how quickly everything can go up in flames. And if I am going to go up in flames, it might as well be for something like this—something worthwhile.

The sound of a throat clearing startles me, tearing me away from rereading the article for the fourth time since I finished it.

"Excuse me, miss, have you seen my girlfriend?"

Tristan's leaning against the bookshelf closest to my desk, his curls still damp from his post-practice shower. When he grins down at me, the knot of lingering anxiety that's been tightening my chest since I sat down to write the article this morning eases slightly.

"She's five-five, usually has a trail of Oreo crumbs following her, looks sexy as fuck in yoga pants . . ." He smirks, eyes flicking down to my legging-clad legs poking out from under the table.

"I don't know. I'm actually waiting for my boyfriend to come to get me." I shrug, matching his aloof tone as I lean back in my seat with an amused smile.

"Boyfriend?" His brow raises as if in challenge. "Damn, I was kind of hoping that you were single. I was going to shoot my shot."

His toothy smile flashes as he extends his hand to me, and when he pulls me up out of my seat, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and knot my fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck, bringing his lips down to mine. It's slow at first, innocent even, until I rock up onto my tiptoes and open my mouth. His tongue brushes against mine as his hands settle on my waist, guiding me back until the back of my thighs bump the desk I've been camped out at all day.

I've waited all day for this, and now that it's happening, I'm going to take my time reveling in it. His arms tighten around me as I pull him closer, not ready to lose the feel of him against me, and when his lips break from mine, they trail across my cheek and down my neck to the spot I have covered with three coats of concealer.

"If you keep kissing me like that, we're never going to make it to O'Malley's," he warns, knotting his fingers in my hair and tugging gently to expose more of my neck. He presses warm kisses across my throat, lingering where my pulse races just under my jaw, and when he smiles against the flushed skin, I know he can feel it.

"Maybe we could be a little late," I offer breathlessly.

"We hit traffic?" His voice is throaty as he runs his thumb across my jaw.

"Had to help an old lady cross the street." I nod, tightening my hold on his shoulders when his tongue drags up my neck. A whisper of a moan slips through my lips when his teeth graze across the skin just under my ear, and my thighs clench as the heat pulsing between them flares.

His lips trail up until they're brushing against the shell of my ear as he says, "I'm going to bend you over this desk, and as much as I love those sexy noises you make when I fuck you, you're going to have to stay quiet. Can you stay quiet, baby?"

My eyes widen at his words, but when I look around, heart racing at the thought of someone overhearing him, I gauge the risk factor here. The Woodbridge-Poole Library has eight floors, and the sixth floor is almost always deserted. Rows and rows of bookshelves are adorned with every classic piece of literature you could think of, only they've been left untouched ever since the library started to offer free ebook versions a few years ago.

I scan the sixth floor—the bare desks, the shelves perfectly tended to, the thin layer of dust on the keyboards lining the wall; aside from my laptop and mess of papers spread out on the table, everything else is untouched, as if it hasn't been disturbed in a very long time. The occasional rustle of paper or cough that echoes from the lower levels is the only sign that anyone is even in the building.

"Someone could walk in," I say, but my voice is soft, and even as the words leave my lips, the adrenaline floods my veins.

"That's part of the fun," he argues, his eyes flicking down my body. When he looks back up, his lips pull into a haughty smirk as he whispers, "Come on, Ryan, live a little."

When I look back up at him, his eyes are darkening, curiously waiting to see if I'll take the bait. I nod, quick and nervous, catching his devilish grin as he lifts me onto the table, his hands already eagerly slipping under my sweater.

His hands are quick and methodical as if he knows we don't have much time, even if we are in the most isolated part of the library. He's already breaking away from my lips so he can pull my leggings down my thighs, my pink cotton panties close behind, and I match his hurried pace, tugging his joggers down his hips. His hands slip back under my sweater, and his fingers have my bra unclasped so fast I feel like I should be offended, but I don't have time to waste thinking about how he's so good at taking off women's underwear because he tears the condom wrapper and slides it on quickly before grabbing my hips and twisting me around, bending me over the desk.

I've been desperate for this since this morning, and when he slides into me, my entire body comes alive at the feel of him filling me. He pulls back before thrusting his hips again, harder than before in a fast rhythm, hitting the spot deep inside that already has my legs weak. And even though I'm biting down on the inside of my cheek hard enough to hurt, a breathy moan slips out, echoing softly around us. He stills, and the loss of friction is torturous. I grind my hips, trying to bring some of it back, but it's not nearly the same.

My eyes widen when his hand reaches up and covers my mouth, gripping me hard enough my make my jaw ache, but when he starts to move his hips again, my eyes roll back, and I'm thankful for the barrier, stifling the noises that I'm powerless to silence myself.

He keeps his hand over my mouth but slips his other under my sweater and up my stomach until he's palming my breast. His hands are calloused and rough, sending a rush of goosebumps up my chest at the feel of them just barely grazing my nipple. It's a whisper of a touch, a teasing caress, and I bite down on his hand, silently begging for him to touch me. His grip on my jaw tightens, and when his calloused fingers pinch my nipple, tugging teasingly as he thrusts into me harder, a rush of white-hot heat surges through my veins, sending goosebumps across my skin and weakening my knees. I don't think I'll ever get used to this—to sex feeling this good; to being with someone who knows my body well enough to make me feel so alive; to craving him all the time, constantly, no matter what I'm doing.

The sound of a door closing echoes through the library, but from the distant echo of the lock slipping back into place, I can tell that it's not on this floor. I look over my shoulder toward the tiny opening of the hallway, praying no one rounds that corner. The library is silent, apart from the small noises that we can't silence, and when his hand guides my head back to look up at him, all thoughts of security guards or wandering students fade away at his throaty voice.

"Come back to me, baby." His eyes are dark and his cheeks flushed as he leans down, pressing a trail of wet, warm kisses down my neck.

Somehow, the thought of being caught, of someone seeing us like this, sends an exciting thrill through me, and when he grips my hip tightly and hits the spot deep inside me, the tension building in my stomach explodes up my spine in a mind-numbing flood of pleasure. My back arches as I dig my fingers into his arm, but even his firm grip over my mouth can't completely silence the throaty moans. His movements quicken before one final, desperate thrust, and when his head falls onto my shoulder as he groans softly against my throat, I relish in the aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through my veins as he rides out his own high.

The sound of the entrance door opening echoes through the library, and every muscle in my body tenses because that one was definitely on this floor. By the time the voice echoes through the library, Tristan's handing me each piece of my clothing, standing in front of me to block me from view as he pulls the condom off and tugs his pants back up his legs.

I struggle with clipping my bra since my sweater is still on but give up after a few seconds, opting to just slip my arms through it and pull it off instead. I'm shoving my bra, papers, and laptop into my purse as he takes my hand and pulls me toward the exit, dropping the condom in the trash on the way. When we turn the corner, a short, burly guard standing by the door has an unamused frown as he takes us in. When his eyes flick down to my chest, I'm convinced he can see my heart careening there. Tristan blocks me slightly as he leads us toward the door, nodding to the guard.

"The library closed ten minutes ago. I could fine you both for staying in after hours." He crosses his arms, and when his eyes slide from Tristan's flushed cheeks to mine, I have a feeling he knows exactly what we were doing.

"Lost track of time, sorry, man," Tristan says, not breaking his stride as he pulls us past the guard. I'd be willing to bet he would have stopped us if it was anyone else, but he can't be much taller than I am, and when he glowers up at Tristan, his stern demeanor falters.

"Well . . . don't let it happen again," he calls after us, his voice echoing through the silent library. When I look over my shoulder as Tristan pulls me onto the elevator, an electric thrill shoots through my veins as the doors close behind us.

"So," he says, pulling my attention back to see him running a hand through his tousled curls. His cheeks are still flushed, and when his eyes flash, and his lips pull up into a playful smirk, my cheeks flame at the realization of what we just did. "Can I get your number? You know, before my girlfriend comes back."

My heart is still dangerously close to beating out of my chest as the elevator rings out its first ding, bringing us down each level at an impossibly slow crawl. I pull my lip between my teeth as I take a step back and lean against the elevator wall, savoring the adrenaline rush still coursing through my veins.

"I don't know . . . I don't think my boyfriend would be very happy about that."

His laugh reverberates around us as he nods, shrugging casually as if to say, fair enough.

The notification that rings out softly from my purse pulls my attention, and when I realize that it's the notification for my email, I gasp so loudly I'm pretty sure the guard from two stories up might have heard it. I dig through my bag, pulling out my phone quickly, not bothering to look at the flood of notifications from Jenny and Nia, likely blowing up the group chat wondering why it's taking Tristan and me so long to get to O'Malley's. When I click to open the email, I have to read it a few times before it fully registers because there's no way I'm reading this right.

It's a reply from Brenda Morgan.

It's a quote. She gave me a quote.