The wine glass in her hand trembled a little when she said it, her laugh tight. “Been a while,” she admitted, setting the glass down with a clink. “Years, honestly. Forgot how… awkward it feels, at first.” He nodded, about to say something reassuring, when she shifted closer, her knee brushing his, and smiled—a different smile, sharp and sure, like the nerves had melted away.
“C’mere,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. Her hand on his chest, firm but not rough, guiding him back until he hit the arm of the couch. She straddled his lap, her movements smooth, no hesitation, and when he started to reach for her, she caught his wrists, lacing their fingers together and pressing them into the cushions above his head. “Not yet,” she murmured, and the sound of it—low, warm, familiar—sent a shiver down his spine.
This wasn’t awkward. This was muscle memory, a rhythm her body remembered even if her mind claimed to forget. The way she tilted her head when she kissed, the pressure of her hips, the soft sigh that escaped when he tensed beneath her—none of it felt rusty. She’d said it had been years, but here, in the press of skin and the quickening of breath, it was clear: some things you don’t unlearn. They just wait, quiet and patient, until the right person comes along to wake them up.
He stopped trying to keep up, let himself fall into the current of her. “You lied,” he managed to say between kisses, and she laughed, the sound bright and unapologetic. “Did I?” she said, but there was no guilt in it, just the quiet pride of someone who’d rediscovered a part of herself she thought was lost.