They assume she craves rest. Warm soup. Maybe soft music.
But when the lights are low, and the blankets drawn just right, what she craves is something else entirely.
She lies in bed, not quite asleep. Her hand rests near her collarbone, fingers brushing slowly over the skin. Her body is still. But her mind? It wanders.
She thinks of warmth—not the kind from tea, but from a breath close to her ear.
She thinks of pressure—not from time, but from weight.
She thinks of sound—not music, but moans in the dark.
She turns slowly, the sheet pulling across her legs.
The ache isn’t pain.
It’s memory.
And need.
Most men overlook it.
But every night, she knows exactly what she craves.
And it’s not silence.