The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange, when she crossed the room and tugged the heavy curtain shut, plunging the space into dimness. He thought it was sweet, a bid for intimacy—keeping the world out so they could be in their own little bubble. But then she turned, her silhouette sharp against the faint light seeping through the edges, and he saw the set of her jaw. This wasn’t about privacy.
In the dark, her movements became more deliberate. She didn’t need to worry about him reading her expressions, so every touch landed harder, every word sounded lower, like she was unlearning the habit of softening herself for the light. He fumbled for the lamp, but she caught his wrist, her grip firm. “Leave it,” she said, and he did, his eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom.
Power thrives in shadows. Without the sun to illuminate the cracks, the hesitations, she could be bolder—her demands clearer, her control unshakable. Privacy would have felt safe, cozy. This felt charged, like standing on the edge of a cliff. She wasn’t hiding from the world. She was making the world irrelevant, shrinking the room to just the two of them—and making sure she was the one holding the reins.
When she finally let him turn on the lamp, hours later, the light felt harsh, almost intrusive. But the memory of the dark lingered—the way she’d moved, the way he’d obeyed, the quiet certainty that she’d chosen the darkness not to hide, but to rule it.