She tells everyone she’s past the phase of playing games.
She doesn’t “do drama.”
Doesn’t tolerate nonsense.
She’s wise, mature, seasoned.
But there’s something curious in her nightstand. Tucked beneath a folded scarf, next to a little bottle of oil she doesn’t talk about.
A blindfold.
Soft. Velvet. Still faintly scented.
She hasn’t used it in weeks—but she checks that it’s still there.
Still waiting.
Still hers.
Because the truth is… she’s not too old for games.
She’s too smart for boring ones.
The kind of game she plays doesn’t happen over dinner or on dating apps. It happens in silence. In trust. In surrender.
She’s not interested in fumbling hands or weak intentions.
But give her someone bold—someone willing to be told where to kneel, when to wait, how to listen—and suddenly that drawer opens again.
She may not show it in the daylight.
But at night, when the rules are hers to write, the blindfold doesn’t hide weakness—it awakens everything she keeps locked away behind polite smiles.
She’s done pretending.
And that drawer?
It’s not just for storage.
It’s for reminders… of the woman she still is when the world forgets to ask.