During the day, she wears loose sweaters, soft cardigans, practical shoes.
When someone flirts, she chuckles politely, then changes the subject.
Men call her elegant. Graceful. “Not the type.”
And she’s fine with that—on the surface.
But if you ever saw what she wears to bed, you’d realize her silence is a disguise.
Black lace. Silk. Not old pajamas. Not flannel.
Delicate straps that slip from her shoulders like second thoughts.
She doesn’t wear it for anyone else.
Not really.
But still… she turns a little when she passes her mirror.
She pauses before lying down, smoothing the fabric over her thighs.
She bites her lip, sometimes, at nothing at all.
She may not invite desire with her words—but her choices betray her.
Because what a woman wears to sleep says more than any smile.
It’s not just for comfort.
It’s for connection—with a memory, with a fantasy, with the version of herself that still waits, still aches, still wonders… what if.
And even when the lights go off, she never fully lets go of that fire.
Because she’s not uninterested.
She’s just selective about who gets to see what’s under the act.