The carpet presses into my knees, rough enough to remind me not to shift, not to fidget. I’ve been here long enough for the ache to bloom and settle, to become something steady... something almost comforting.
The bed behind me dips slightly, just once, like a test. I don’t turn. I don’t dare.
Waiting is part of it. She taught me that.
Every second stretches, pulled thin with anticipation, until even the quiet feels loud. The soft rustle of fabric, the slow, deliberate movement I can’t see; it all coils tight in my chest. I keep my hands exactly where she told me, resting on my thighs, fingers still, posture straight despite the tremor building underneath.
I wonder if she is watching me. No, of course she is.
The thought sends a shiver up my spine, sharp and electric. I swallow it down, steadying my breathing, counting each inhale like it’s something I can hold onto. Something I can offer.
Because this... this moment, suspended and aching is proof of something quieter than touch. Something deeper than closeness.
It’s trust. It’s control.
It’s knowing that I will stay exactly like this, even when it burns, even when I ache for the smallest sign.
And when it finally comes: a word, a step closer, the brush of attention...
