The room is dim, the air still, the kind of quiet where even breathing feels louder than it should. You lie there, close but not touching, each aware of the other’s presence. Then the blanket shifts. Her thigh finds yours, bare skin against bare skin, carrying the warmth of her through every point of contact.
It’s not lace, not the calculated allure of silk—just the softness of her, alive and warm, pulsing faintly with her heartbeat. She doesn’t move away; instead, the contact deepens as if the space between you was never meant to exist. You feel the faint, unintentional stroke of her skin as she shifts slightly, and it sends a slow ripple through you.
No words are spoken. The only conversation is in the shared heat, the way your bodies acknowledge each other in silence. The blanket, suddenly, feels far too thin for the kind of heat building between you. You close your eyes, not to sleep, but to hold the moment in the dark where no one else can see.