She stands at the edge of the bed, her shoulders squared, and without a glance back, she turns, her spine a long, clean line beneath the thin fabric of her dress. For a second, your chest tightens—had you misread things? Did you push too hard?—but then she shifts, the fabric sliding up just enough to reveal the curve of her lower back, and you understand. This isn’t a door closing. It’s a window opening, one you’re not sure you’re brave enough to climb through.
She’s giving you space, but not the kind that keeps you apart. It’s the kind that says take your time, but know what’s here. You’ve been tentative, too busy overthinking, too afraid to step into the intensity of what’s between you. She’s tired of waiting for you to catch up, so she’s laid it out plain: this is what I want. Are you going to meet me here?
Your feet move before you think, carrying you closer until you’re standing behind her, the heat of her body warming your chest. You hover, your hands shaking, and she leans back slightly, just enough to brush against you, a silent nudge. “It’s okay,” she says, her voice soft but steady, and you realize the invitation wasn’t just physical. It was emotional—letting you see the parts of her she keeps guarded, trusting you not to flinch.
You let your hands rest on her hips, and she sighs, melting back into you, her hair brushing your cheek. This is what you weren’t ready for—the quiet courage of her trust, the way turning away was actually turning toward you. Rejection never felt so much like welcome.