She swears she’s past it now — that whatever thrill there once was, she’s long since forgotten. But when she rolls over in bed, the truth isn’t in her words. It’s in the slow tilt of her hips, the way her body arcs just enough to make the sheet slide lower across her waist. The movement is unhurried, like she isn’t aware of it, but there’s precision in the way her back curves and her shoulder drops.
Her breathing changes when she shifts — not faster, not heavier, just deeper, the kind that comes when the body settles into a familiar position. The sheet catches against her thigh for a moment before giving way, revealing the smooth line of skin that disappears beneath the fabric. Her hair spills forward over the pillow, and in the stillness, you notice how her hips settle into the mattress like they’ve learned the shape of someone else’s hands.
She says she’s forgotten the feeling, but the way her body moves tells a different story. Muscle memory doesn’t fade so easily — not when it’s been written into the curve of her back and the way she breathes in the dark.