It happens softly.
I'm not thinking about it. I'm not even chasing it. The morning is quiet, my motions unhurried. A stretch. A breath. The way the fabric of my top brushes my skin as I move.
And there it is.
The warmth rises before I've thought to invite it. Low. Gentle. But immediate.
It's easier now. That's what startles me.
The way the sensation curls without effort. The way my breath catches – just slightly – without conscious thought. It hums beneath the surface as I shift my weight, the memory of the mirror, the memory of hands, flickering in the back of my mind.
I hold still.
I don't act on it. I let the warmth settle and drift, neither feeding it nor forcing it away. The idea of carrying it without touching – of letting it simmer without release – sits strangely sweet in the center of me.
The smile doesn't come this time.
I don't need it.
The warmth is enough.
I take the warmth with me.
The café is quiet. Familiar. The gentle clink of glasses. The soft hum of voices. Everything ordinary. But beneath it, I carry something that isn't.
The feeling stays low but steady. It doesn't fade the way it used to. It hums under my skin, a patient weight that breathes alongside me.
I shift in my seat without meaning to. Cross my legs. Uncross them. The brush of fabric against the softness of me draws a breath I don't mean to catch. It's not sharp. Not desperate.
But it's there.
The girl is here too. The dark-haired one. I don't seek her eyes this time, but I feel the weight of the glance when it comes. I hold still. I sip my tea. I carry the warmth like a secret stitched into the lining of me.
I don't touch.
I don't need to.
But the thought of how easy it would be – how simple it would be to slip just a little closer to the edge – flares once, low and quick, before I press it back down.
The breath I let out is soft.
And the warmth doesn't leave.
It's waiting when I get home.
I don't hesitate this time.
The mirror catches me as soon as I step into the quiet. The stillness wraps around me, soft and familiar. The warmth is there – deeper now, heavier – and I let it rise without resistance.
I move through the motions without thinking: fingertips over fabric, the soft pull of my clothes sliding away, the shape of me bare and breathing.
My hands move sooner than they used to. The brush of skin, the press of palm, the way my breath catches sharp instead of soft. I don't rush, but I don't pause either.
The mirror holds it all. The way my eyes flicker half-closed. The way my hips shift into my own hand. The low sound that escapes my lips without meaning to.
The release comes quicker this time.
When it spills over, it's softer than I expect but fuller somehow – richer. The warmth doesn't just fade. It lingers after. It hums in the way my breath comes light and uneven, in the way my hand slows and stills.
I smile.
But it's not the same smile.
There's hunger beneath it now. A low curl of wanting that doesn't fully let go.
I carry it with me as I settle into bed. Quiet. Steady.
And still there.