It happens without warning.
Not during one of my deliberate still moments. Not when I'm seeking it. Just… quietly. Softly. In the breath between things.
I'm washing dishes. The radio plays softly in the background. The water runs warm over my hands. My thoughts are elsewhere – on color palettes, on a half-finished project waiting on my desk.
And then, without meaning to, I shift.
The press of fabric hits differently.
Not sharper. Not painful. But full. Sudden. My breath hitches. A flicker of heat moves through me – not the quiet comfort I know, not the soft glow I've held before, but something deeper.
Something sharper.
I freeze without meaning to. My hands still in the water. My breath caught in my chest.
It passes. It softens. But the feeling remains – something low and warm and unsettling.
I finish the dishes without thinking.
But I can't shake it.
The way my heart kicked. The way my breath shifted. The way my body responded before my mind caught up.
It felt… different.
And I know, as I dry my hands and return to the stillness of the evening, that something has shifted.
Something is waking.
The feeling doesn't leave.
Even hours later, long after the dishes are done, long after the ordinary rituals of the evening unfold – tea, soft lights, the quiet hush of the city beyond the windows – it lingers.
It's not urgent. It's not loud. But it's there.
I try to set it aside. I focus on my work, on the careful lines and muted colors glowing on my screen. I answer emails. I close tabs. I move through the motions of my life as if nothing has shifted.
But my body remembers.
The warmth beneath my skin stays close. The faint hum. The restless weight in my stomach that wasn't there before.
I think back.
I've been with people before. I've known touch. I've known the ordinary pull of want, of closeness. But it never held me this way. It never felt… *right*.
I've always liked the softness of things. The feel of fabric. The comfort of being still, held, safe. But this – this flicker – is different.
I pause at the mirror before bed. My reflection looks the same: soft sweater, bare legs, hair brushed loose. Nothing about me has changed. And yet–
My fingertips drift without permission.
Lower.
Slower.
The contact is barely there – just a brush over fabric – but the warmth blooms sharper this time. Not just comfort. Not just stillness. Something… deeper.
I pull my hand back.
I swallow hard.
I don't know what I'm feeling. Not fully. Not yet.
But I know it's not the same.
I know it's real.
The quiet stretches.
I should sleep.
But instead I sit at the edge of the bed, fingertips resting lightly over my lap – barely touching, barely breathing. The air feels heavier now. The warmth beneath my skin thrums steady and low.
I let my hand press down.
Not hard. Not rough. Just pressure. Gentle, careful.
The feeling sharpens almost instantly. Heat pulls low in my stomach. My breath stirs faster, softer, without my meaning it to. I press again, shift slightly, feel the faintest jolt of pleasure spark under my fingertips.
I freeze.
It's not the soft safety I've known. It's more. It's real.
I swallow. I press again. A shiver curls through me – small, but sharp enough to catch. My thighs press together without thought. My breath hitches higher.
I stop before it goes too far.
I pull my hand back. My skin tingles. My heart beats faster than it should.
But I'm smiling.
Small. Quiet. Startled.
Something has changed.
Something is awake now.
And I know, without question, that I'll come back to this.
Soon.