The flowers arrived the next morning.
Anna noticed them before she noticed anything else—the pale color against the darker hallway, the faint scent that reached her before she reached the door. For a moment, she simply stood there, keys still in her hand, staring.
They were arranged neatly. Deliberately. Nothing extravagant, nothing loud. The kind of bouquet that felt chosen rather than purchased.
Her name was written on the card in clean, precise handwriting.
She didn't open it right away.
She brought the flowers inside, set them carefully on the kitchen counter, and only then allowed herself to read the card.
Thinking of you.
No signature.
She exhaled slowly, as if she had been holding her breath without realizing it.
He didn't text her that day.
The absence felt intentional.
The flowers sat in her apartment all day, their presence quietly insistent. Every time she passed them, she became aware of her body again—of the faint warmth low in her stomach, of the way her shoulders relaxed despite herself.
They arrived again the next day.
Different flowers. Same restraint.
Anna laughed softly when she saw them, a sound edged with disbelief. "This is ridiculous," she murmured to the empty room. And yet, she trimmed the stems, changed the water, arranged them with care.
Still, no message.
By the third day, the pattern was unmistakable.
Flowers.
Silence.
The combination unsettled her more than any text would have. It made her feel watched without being observed, considered without being pursued. As though the attention was steady, patient—waiting for something.
Mia noticed, of course.
"You have to send him a picture," she said over coffee, eyes gleaming. "Otherwise it's rude."
Anna frowned. "He didn't ask."
"That's exactly why," Mia replied. "He's giving you space. You're allowed to step into it."
The words lingered.
That night, Anna stood in her kitchen with her phone in her hand, the bouquet positioned carefully on the counter. She adjusted the light once. Then again. Each small movement made her more aware of herself—of the way her body leaned forward, of the way her breath had slowed.
This is just a photo, she told herself.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
She hesitated—not because she didn't want to send it, but because she knew what it would mean if she did. It would be the first unprompted thing she'd offered him. The first signal that came from her.
Her heart beat a little faster.
She took the photo.
It was simple.
She stared at it for a moment longer than necessary, then sent it without a caption.
The reply came almost immediately.
Would you like to go out again?
To somewhere quieter?
Anna stared at the message, heat rising quickly to her cheeks.
Her body responded before her mind could catch up.
She didn't answer right away.
She set the phone down and walked into the bedroom, then back to the kitchen, as though movement might help her think. It didn't. Her thoughts felt scattered, drowned out by the steady awareness of what she had just done.
This wasn't accidental, she realized.
She felt warm. A little unsteady.
And unmistakably aware that something had shifted.
She hadn't been convinced.
She hadn't been persuaded.
When she finally went into the bathroom, she closed the door more gently than usual.
The light was soft. Familiar. Safe.
She turned on the shower and waited for the water to heat, watching steam gather along the tiles. As she undressed, she became aware of how warm she already felt, how her skin seemed more sensitive than usual to the brush of fabric, to the air.
This is just a shower, she told herself.
The water hit her shoulders with a steady rush, hot enough to make her inhale sharply. She stood beneath it, head bowed, letting it run down her back, over her arms, along the curve of her spine.
The heat loosened something in her.
Her breath slowed, then deepened. Her shoulders relaxed. She closed her eyes, tilting her face slightly upward, allowing the spray to strike her collarbone, her chest, the place where warmth had been gathering all evening.
She told herself not to think.
She thought anyway.
Not of anything specific at first—just the sensation of being warm, enveloped, held. The way the water traced lines along her body, unhurried, unavoidable. The way her skin responded, tingling faintly under the constant pressure.
Her thoughts drifted, as thoughts do when the body takes over.
His voice. His scent.
The scent she hadn't been able to forget.
Her breath caught, just slightly.
She shifted her weight, one foot bracing against the tile, and became acutely aware of the way her body reacted to the movement. A subtle tightening low in her abdomen. A warmth that spread rather than faded.
This isn't about him, she thought.
But the thought felt thin.
She reached for the soap, her movements slower now, more deliberate. The scent bloomed in the steam, clean and floral, and she inhaled deeply, grounding herself in the present.
Her hands moved over her arms, her shoulders, down her sides. The contact was ordinary. Necessary. And yet, every brush of skin felt magnified, as though her nerves were closer to the surface than usual.
She paused, hands resting briefly against the tile.
Her body felt heavy. Rooted. Alert.
She let the water run hotter.
The heat intensified, pressing against her skin, and she felt another slow wave of sensation roll through her—unbidden, unmistakable. Her thighs pressed together instinctively. She exhaled through parted lips, surprised by the sound.
She opened her eyes.
Get a grip, she told herself.
But even the reprimand felt distant, muffled by the steady roar of the water.
She leaned her forehead against the tile, eyes closed again, breathing deliberately now. The world narrowed to sensation: heat, pressure, the slick glide of water along skin.
And beneath it all, a persistent awareness.
She thought of the message still waiting unanswered.
Of the single word he had sent.
Of how quickly he had replied before, and how deliberately he had slowed now.
Her body reacted to the thought with a clarity that made her still.
She didn't touch herself in any way that crossed a line. She didn't need to. The sensation lived in her already—low, insistent, impossible to ignore. Her pulse seemed louder here, echoing faintly in her ears.
She shifted again, unable to find a position that felt neutral. The water streamed down her back, along her hips, pooling briefly before running away.
She felt exposed.
Not naked—she was alone—but open. As though something inside her had been loosened and was waiting to be filled by attention, by presence.
She turned slowly beneath the spray, letting it strike her from a different angle. The change sent a sharper jolt through her, and she sucked in a breath, fingers curling briefly against the tile.
This is ridiculous, she thought again.
And yet, she didn't turn the water down.
She stayed there longer than she needed to, letting the heat build, letting her body respond without interruption. Her thoughts grew hazy at the edges, drifting between sensation and memory.
The way his hand had felt when she'd placed hers in it.
The steadiness of his grip.
The calm assurance in his voice.
Her breath deepened, her chest rising and falling more noticeably now. She was aware of the way her body felt—warm, responsive, achingly present.
She felt foolish.
She felt aroused.
The realization made her open her eyes again, heart beating faster.
She forced herself to step back from the spray, breaking the spell. The cooler air hit her skin, raising a faint shiver.