Tyler had always dated women his age. Twenty-seven, fresh out of grad school, optimistic and eager, he usually found comfort in simple things—pizza dates, gym selfies, soft kisses in the dark.
But then came Laura.
She was sixty-eight. A former professor. Twice widowed. Her laugh lines were deep, but her confidence was deeper. They met at a writing workshop. She critiqued his poetry and he flirted in return, expecting nothing but intellectual banter.
What he got instead was far more disarming.
Over coffee one afternoon, she leaned in and said, “Your poems… they lack heat.”
“Heat?”
“You’re holding back,” she said. “You write like someone afraid to touch fire.”
Tyler smiled. “Maybe I just haven’t met the right flame.”
Her lips curled. “Be careful. Some fires know how to burn slow—and last longer.”
He didn’t know what she meant. Not yet.
But a week later, they met for dinner. Laura wore a black wrap dress and no apologies. Her voice was velvet and her touch was deliberate.
“You think I’m playing with you?” she asked, when he faltered under her gaze.
“I’m just trying to figure you out,” he admitted.
She leaned in, her hand brushing his thigh casually. “Most young men can’t handle what an experienced woman really craves.”
“Try me,” he whispered.
Her eyes softened. “It’s not about trying, love. It’s about surrender.”
Laura didn’t want fumbling hands or rehearsed lines. She wanted honesty. Presence. Patience. She wanted a man who could touch her mind before her skin—and stay long enough to hold her when the trembling stopped.
That night, she didn’t ask for anything. She simply offered her presence, her warmth, her body as something not to conquer—but to understand.
And for the first time in his life, Tyler didn’t feel like a boy pretending to be a man.
He felt chosen.