I see her before she sees me.
The café hums with soft voices, clatter of cups, the faint warmth of early light. She's there again – shoulders slightly hunched, fingers curled around a cup, eyes down. The sight of her settles low beneath my ribs, quiet but sharp.
I hesitate only a moment before moving.
The craving hums, steady but held close. My breath stays even as I cross the space, as I offer the smallest smile when her eyes lift to mine.
"Hey," I say softly. "Mind if I sit?"
She smiles – brighter this time, more sure. "Please."
Her voice warms me more than it should. The quiet between us is easy, not strained. We talk – nothing heavy, nothing sharp. Little things: weather, books, the taste of the coffee. I let myself watch her hands when she speaks. The way her hair falls soft over one shoulder. The shape of her mouth when she smiles, shy but genuine.
The warmth stirs stronger, but I don't move. I let it live beneath the surface, unspoken.
Her fingers brush mine when she reaches for her cup. Accidental. Light. But the heat of it lingers sharp.
I let my eyes linger just a breath longer than I should. She doesn't pull away.
The conversation drifts. The space between us hums.
And for the first time, I feel the possibility open – quiet, real, close enough to touch.
The rhythm between us settles. Calm. Comfortable. The kind of quiet that feels like it could stretch without breaking.
I feel the warmth still – low, steady beneath the surface – but I let it hum without tipping into motion. My fingers brush the rim of my cup. Her voice softens when she speaks. Our eyes meet longer each time.
"Do you come here often?" she asks, her voice light but curious.
I smile. "Lately, yes. I like quiet places."
She nods, fingertips trailing the edge of her saucer. There's something tentative in her – something that watches without quite stepping forward. I feel it mirrored in me.
I breathe in slow, then offer it softly, without weight:
"I'm usually here around this time. If you ever… wanted to join me again."
The words hang between us – gentle, open, nothing demanded. Her lips curve faintly, her eyes flick down, then back up. The flush in her cheeks is subtle but real.
"I might," she says quietly. "I'd like that."
The warmth swells sharper under my skin, but I hold still. My smile stays soft. The conversation drifts on, but the shift is there now – delicate, but steady.
The door has opened.
The quiet follows me home.
The craving hums soft under my skin, but I don't chase it. I let it simmer – low, steady, patient – as I move through the small rituals of the evening. The memory of her voice, her smile, the faint pink in her cheeks – each slips back through me in fragments.
I could have touched. I could have let it tip forward. But I didn't.
And strangely, I don't ache for what didn't happen.
I want it – yes. The thought of her skin, the softness of her breath, the way her hands might feel against mine. The craving sharpens when I let my mind linger. But I hold it. I carry it.
Because I want more than the high of the moment. I want the space for it to unfold. I want the pull, the weight, the ache – but shared. Real. Seen.
I touch nothing. I let the warmth rise and settle, rise and settle, as I breathe into the quiet.
And when I close my eyes, I still feel the curve of her voice in me. The promise of something I haven't touched yet.
And I'm not in a hurry.