She’d had men who made her skin sing.
Their touch, their mouths, their hunger—it all felt good. Addictive, even. But temporary. Always fast. Always urgent.
But when the high wore off, so did the closeness.
She didn’t stay for pleasure. She never had.
And then she met him.
He touched her, yes—but only when she invited it. He kissed her—but always after looking at her, really looking. Not to ask for permission, but to ask for presence.
One night, as they lay together, she rested her hand on his chest—expecting him to roll on top of her like so many others had.
But he didn’t move.
Not because he wasn’t aroused. Not because he didn’t want her.
He waited.
Until she moved first.
And when she finally pulled him in, it wasn’t because she felt pressure—it was because she felt safe.
She didn’t stay because of the way he touched her.
She stayed because of the space he gave her to choose it.
Because sometimes, the most powerful act… is patience.