The city moves gently.
The streets are narrow, uneven in places, paved with stones worn soft by time. The buildings rise close together – pale stone, weathered wood, iron balconies draped in ivy. It's not large, not loud. A small French town caught somewhere between old charm and quiet decay.
I've lived here for three years.
I'm not truly local. Not in the way that matters. But people know me.
I nod to Madame Leclerc when I pass her florist's shop – she always waves back, hands dusted in pollen, her smile soft with the lines of age. The baker, Monsieur Duret, gives me a polite nod as he stacks fresh loaves in the window. I know the names of the café owners, the grocer, the soft-spoken girl who manages the used bookshop. They know me too. Not well. Not deeply. But enough.
They call me polite. Quiet. I return their greetings. I buy my bread. I keep to the soft edges of things.
And until recently, I thought that was enough.
I move through the morning as I always do. My bag light on my shoulder, the air soft against my skin. The sky hangs pale and thin above the rooftops. Somewhere, someone plays music through an open window. Faint, drifting, forgettable.
I breathe it in.
And somewhere beneath the surface, the warmth stirs again.
Not sharply. Not urgently.
Just there.
The world doesn't notice.
But I do.
I wander without hurry.
The market sits just off the main square, tucked between old stone walls and a curve of narrow streets. It's small, but the stalls bloom with color: fabrics, fruit, flowers. The air smells like fresh bread and roasted coffee, the sharp sweetness of ripe peaches blending with the weight of dust and old wood.
I come here often. Not because I need anything. Just because I like the rhythm of it – the soft murmur of voices, the careful way people move, the press of everyday life flowing around me.
I pause at a fabric stall. Fingertips drift over silk, over cotton, over linen faded by sun. The touch lingers longer than I mean it to.
The woman behind the stall smiles at me – Yvette. I know her name. She always smells faintly of lavender and speaks softly, as if every word is something private.
"Looking for something special?" she asks.
I shake my head. "Just looking."
But I feel it.
The weight of fabric. The press of textures against skin. The memory of pressure hums low, gentle but steady.
I move on. Past baskets of strawberries. Past copper trinkets and old books. I nod to people I know – Madame Aubert with her bags of herbs, the boy from the pastry stall whose name I can never quite remember.
It's ordinary.
But everything feels sharper. The world breathes differently. Every brush of cloth, every drift of scent, every passing warmth feels close.
I don't stop long. I don't need to.
But by the time I head home, the weight of the thought has settled fully again.
Waiting.
Soft. Steady.
And wanting.
Home feels different.
Not visibly. Nothing has changed. The soft spill of afternoon light through the curtains. The still air. The familiar quiet of small rooms and neatly folded things.
But the warmth follows me inside. It hums low, soft but insistent. A gentle pressure somewhere beneath thought. It isn't sharp. It isn't need. It's just… there.
I set my things down carefully. Move through the motions: shoes placed by the door, groceries put away, kettle filled for tea. My hands move without my mind.
And yet every small touch lingers. The way the hem of my skirt brushes my thighs as I move. The faint cling of fabric when I sit. Even the soft air feels heavier somehow, as if it presses against me in places no one else could see.
I don't act on it.
Not this time.
But I feel it. I let myself feel it. The low hum, the weight, the soft flicker beneath the surface. Not overwhelming. Not unbearable.
Just steady.
And when I finally change for the night – slow, careful, fingertips brushing over soft cotton – I catch my reflection in the mirror.
The smallest smile. Barely there.
I don't need to say it aloud.
I know I'll come back to it.
Again.
And again.