If she locks her ankles behind your back—she’s telling you not to pull away. It’s a language older than words, a silent plea woven into the press of skin against skin. You can feel the tension in her calves, not the kind that says stop but the kind that says stay, as if her bones know something her lips haven’t dared to admit. Her breath hitches when your palm slides up the curve of her spine, a sound caught between a sigh and a whimper, and you realize this isn’t just desire—it’s trust. The kind that doesn’t come easy, not after years of learning to flinch, of building walls so high even the sun can’t peek over.
Her fingertips trace the edge of your jaw, light as moth wings, before tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck. When she tugs, gentle but insistent, you let her guide you closer, until the scent of her shampoo—rosemary, sharp and sweet—fills your lungs. There’s a tremble in her thighs where they press against yours, a vulnerability she’s kept hidden behind too many polite smiles and half-answered questions. You’ve seen her hold her ground in boardrooms, negotiate deals that make grown men sweat, but here, in this quiet dark, she’s letting herself unspool.
The clock ticks on the nightstand, slow and steady, but neither of you notices. When you brush your thumb across her lower lip, she parts them with a soft gasp, and that’s when you understand: the locked ankles, the trembling hands, the way her eyes flutter closed—they’re all chapters of a story she’s been too afraid to write. So you stay, because sometimes the most important thing you can do is listen, even when the words are silent.