Harold hadn’t expected it to feel this awkward.
After thirty-two years of marriage, he thought he knew Margaret’s body better than his own. But lately, something had changed.
Last night, lying next to her in the dim yellow glow of the bedside lamp, he leaned over, slow and deliberate, to kiss her lips. She turned her head. Not fast, not harsh—but gently, as if pretending not to notice.
That soft rejection burned more than anger ever could.
He paused, hand resting on the curve of her hip, feeling the warmth under her thin silk nightgown. She didn’t move away, but she didn’t turn back either. Her breathing was steady, almost too steady, like she was pretending to sleep.
Harold whispered, “Maggie…” but she kept her eyes closed.
It wasn’t always like this. Years ago, she would have pulled him closer, lips hungry, nails digging lightly into his back. Now, she avoided his mouth, and he couldn’t stop wondering why.
Tonight, he decided to find out.
He waited until the house was silent, the clock ticking loud in the corner. When he slid closer, her body shifted beneath the covers, stiff at first, then slowly relaxing. His hand brushed against hers under the sheets—just a small touch, skin against skin—and finally, her eyes opened.
The look she gave him wasn’t anger. It was something deeper. Something heavier.
“Harold,” she whispered, voice low, almost fragile. “It’s not you.”
He searched her face, his thumb brushing the soft edge of her jaw. She hesitated, then exhaled, eyes flicking down before she finally confessed.
“It’s… how it makes me feel,” she murmured. “When you kiss me like that. It’s too much. It pulls up things I’m not ready to face yet.”
He blinked, caught off guard.
Margaret had lost her sister last year. She had been retreating since then, hiding pieces of herself she thought she had to keep locked away. Kissing—real kissing—was too intimate, too raw, too exposing. She wasn’t avoiding him; she was protecting herself.
Harold leaned in slowly this time, not for her lips, but for her forehead, resting there for a quiet moment. His hand slid gently over hers, fingers lacing, steady and patient. He felt her breathing shift—small, shaky inhales, like something inside her finally softened.
Then, after what felt like forever, she tilted her head back toward him. Her lips barely brushed his—tentative, uncertain, but hers.
It wasn’t passion yet. It wasn’t fire. But it was a start.
And for Harold, that tiny lean, that slow, deliberate kiss meant more than any wild night ever could.
Sometimes, when a partner avoids your lips, it doesn’t mean rejection. It means they’re holding onto something deeper—grief, fear, longing. And sometimes, the softest patience can reopen the hungriest doors.