He’d spent an hour talking—about his promotion, the restaurant he’d booked for Friday, the way he’d “handled” that difficult client. Each story laced with pride, each gesture calculated to show he was worth her time. But she’d just listened, her chin propped on her hand, a faint, unreadable smile on her lips. When he finished, expecting praise, maybe a kiss, she shifted in her chair, leaning back until her shoulders pressed against the cushions, and spread her legs, the hem of her skirt riding up. “Try again,” she said, her voice low, and something in him deflated.
This wasn’t encouragement. It was a dismissal. All his carefully crafted stories, his attempts to prove he was “enough”—they’d missed the mark. She didn’t care about his resume or his conquests. She wanted him—raw, unpolished, not performing for her approval.
He stepped closer, his hands hovering awkwardly, and she raised an eyebrow. “Not with words,” she said, and he understood. This was the test: could he let go of the need to impress? Could he stop trying to earn her attention and just be with her?
He knelt between her legs, his hands sliding up her thighs, and this time, he didn’t say a word. Just touched her like he meant it, not to show off, but to connect. She sighed, her fingers tangling in his hair, and when he looked up, her smile was real. “Better,” she said—and he knew. Impression didn’t matter. Presence did.