Not a word,” she said, her fingers brushing his jaw, and he nodded, his throat suddenly dry. Her gaze was intense, unblinking, as she straddled him, her movements slow, deliberate, like she was drawing a map with her hips. He wanted to tell her how much he’d missed her, how sorry he was, how good this felt, but her eyes narrowed slightly, a silent reminder to keep quiet.
So he did, letting himself drown in the weight of her stare—the way her pupils dilated when he tensed, the small furrow between her brows when he shifted, the softening around her mouth when he let his hands rest gently on her thighs. This was intimacy stripped of noise, no distractions, just the raw, unfiltered connection of two people seeing each other, truly seeing, without the buffer of words.
When she leaned in, her lips brushing his, he thought she’d finally let him speak, but she just shook her head, her nose nuzzling his. Keep looking, she seemed to say, keep feeling. And he did, until the world narrowed to the sound of their breath, the press of their bodies, and the quiet certainty that some things are better said with a gaze than a sentence.