The house was quiet, tucked into the evening like a secret. The air was warm, but the silence between them was warmer. She wasn’t shy—just slow. Deliberate.
They sat side by side on her couch, feet barely touching. He leaned closer, murmuring something against her ear. She didn’t respond with words. Instead, she tilted her head and let out a sound—low, breathy, uncontrolled.
He froze.
It wasn’t a laugh. It wasn’t a sigh. It was a moan. Real and full. And louder than he’d ever expect from someone her age.
Her eyes were half-closed, her lips parted, chest rising and falling in rhythm. She hadn’t been touched yet—not really. But her body already remembered how to respond.
She whispered, “It’s been a while,” and smiled as if daring him to make it longer.
That sound she made?
It wasn’t weakness.
It was the echo of something buried, waiting, alive.
You’d never expect it.
Until you’re close enough to make her forget she’s supposed to be quiet.