
Her knuckles are white, the tips of her fingers digging into the wooden frame of the bed, as if she’s holding on for dear life. You’ve noticed it before, the way she keeps her hands to herself, not reaching for you, not pulling you closer, like there’s an invisible line she won’t cross. At first, you thought it was resistance, a quiet way of saying no, but then you saw the way her hips arch toward you, the way her breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and you realized you were wrong. This isn’t refusal. It’s command.
She’s always been like this, even in the small things. The way she orders coffee at the diner, precise and firm, no room for mistakes. The way she arranges the books on the shelf, alphabetical by author, no exceptions. Control is how she makes sense of the world, how she feels safe in a life that’s thrown more than its fair share of curveballs. Here, in this moment, it’s no different. By gripping the edge of the bed, by keeping her hands to herself, she’s setting the terms. This is happening on her time, in her way, and you’re just along for the ride.
You try to reach for her once, sliding your hand up her thigh, but she tenses, her grip on the bedframe tightening, and you stop. This isn’t a game. This is her way of saying I’m here, I’m present, but I need to feel like I’m in charge. It’s a paradox, really—letting go while holding on, surrendering while staying in control—but somehow, it works. There’s a power in it, a quiet strength that makes the moment feel more intense, more real, than any wild, grasping embrace ever could.
When it’s over, she slowly releases her grip on the bed, her fingers uncurling one by one, as if she’s reluctant to let go of that control. You reach for her hand, lacing your fingers through hers, and she doesn’t pull away. Her palm is warm, still slightly trembling, and you bring it to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. “You okay?” you ask, and she nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Better than okay,” she says, and for the first time, you believe her. Sometimes, control is the bravest thing you can give up.