Your Body as a Place Someone Craves
You start to notice the way he looks at you has changed.
Less casual now. More deliberate.
As if something between you has been quietly pulled taut—and neither of you has the nerve to loosen it.
You’re standing too close again.
Or maybe, this time, neither of you bothered to step back.
His attention moves over you slowly—not crude, not careless—just restrained. The kind of restraint that comes from not trusting your own hands. From knowing exactly what you want, and choosing, still, not to reach for it.
When wanting has had too much time to settle in the body, it changes shape.
The way your breath shortens when he’s near.
The way your skin grows aware of itself, suddenly too warm, too present beneath your clothes.
He watches the small things.
The way you tuck your hair behind your ear.
The stretch of your arms overhead.
The quiet curve of your waist when you laugh.
As if he’s committing to memory what he hasn’t earned the right to touch.
Every conversation feels like something just short of contact
a joke held a second too long,
eye contact that lingers past comfort,
silence that hums instead of settles.
And somewhere inside that waiting, your body becomes a place.
Not just something he wants—but somewhere he imagines being. Close. Within reach. A place to rest the weight of himself without having to ask.
And you wonder how much longer this careful distance can hold.
How long before one of you forgets to be careful at all.
Because wanting, when it stretches this thin—
