The air in the bedroom is cool, the kind that makes you want to curl up, but she’s not curling. She’s lying there, sheets pulled up to her collarbone, her arms crossed over the fabric like a shield, but her legs are splayed open, a silent contradiction that makes your pulse kick up. At first, you think it’s modesty, the kind that comes from a lifetime of being told to cover up, to be “ladylike,” but then she meets your eyes and tilts her chin, and you know better. This isn’t shyness. It’s a test.
She’s always been like this, even back in the day, when you’d dance at the community center and she’d let you get close but never too close, like she was keeping score. The sheets are a distraction, you realize—something to make you focus on the barrier instead of the invitation. You’ve seen her do it with everyone: her kids, her friends, even the cashier at the grocery store—putting up a front while quietly giving away exactly what she wants.
You lean in, slow, and brush a strand of hair from her face. “You know I can see you, right?” you say, and her lips twitch, like she’s fighting a smile. The sheets slip a little as she shifts, and for a second, you catch a glimpse of the scar on her shoulder, the one from when she fell off her bike at 12. It’s a reminder: she’s not just the woman who hides behind sheets and half-smiles. She’s the girl who used to climb trees and sneak out to watch sunrises, fearless and bright. The sheets stay up, but her legs part a little wider, and you know—this is how she loves. Guarded, but never hidden. Scared, but never silent. And maybe that’s the bravest thing of all.