The first time she hushed him, it was playful—a finger pressed lightly against his lips, her smile curving as though she were teasing. But when he opened his mouth again, she leaned closer, her eyes narrowing, and whispered with a weight that left no room for doubt: “Don’t speak. Just listen.”
He froze. The command carried no anger, only a strange authority that unsettled him in the best way. She stood so near that he could hear her breathing, could catch the faint trace of perfume mixed with something warmer, something uniquely hers. His instinct was to resist, to protest the unfamiliar loss of his voice, but something in her gaze warned him that silence would be more rewarding than words.
So he stayed quiet. And the longer he did, the more she filled the silence with her own rhythm. She spoke slowly, choosing her words as though savoring them, and each one peeled back another layer of herself—her frustrations, her curiosities, her unspoken desires that had lingered in the air between them for too long. He realized, almost with shock, that she was saying things she had never allowed herself to admit before.
The more he obeyed, the more daring she became. Her hand traced the edge of the table where his fingers rested, deliberately close but not quite touching. Her voice dipped lower, pulling him deeper into her confidence, her control. He discovered that silence was not weakness but its own form of power—because in that stillness, he heard everything she wanted him to know. And though he never spoke, his body responded—tense, alert, ready—proving that she didn’t need his words to feel the effect she had over him.