"What matters most is how he holds you once your guard has fallen."
— Yrsa Daley-Ward
~~~~~~~
The blindfold loosened slowly.
Zaya felt Cael's fingers first, at her temples, then her cheekbones, as he untied the knot. The lace slipped away without resistance, falling into his hands like a secret being returned.
Light filtered back into the young woman's vision, soft and amber from the overhead pendant. She blinked, her lashes fluttering as her eyes adjusted. But it wasn't the brightness that made her blink. It was the shift. The sudden vulnerability of being seen again after being so thoroughly felt.
She didn't move. Her breath was low in her chest, wide and deep, like she'd been swimming underwater and surfaced slowly.
The older man knelt in front of her, the blindfold now folded neatly in his palm. He didn't reach for her. He didn't fill the space with praise or platitudes. He just watched her attentively.
Zaya swallowed. Her throat was dry, but her body felt full. Her skin was still humming, especially between her thighs, where the air felt cooler now in the absence of his touch. She didn't know how to speak yet. Her voice felt like it belonged to someone else.
He stood slowly and crossed to the side table, pouring a glass of water. He returned, offering it with one hand, palm up.
She took it. Their fingers brushed.
Her hand trembled slightly as she drank, and she realized she was still holding the river stone in her other hand, tight against her palm like a lifeline.
When she finished, he took the glass and placed it on the table beside her.
Then he sat, not across from her, not too close, but beside her. Just far enough that she could reach if she wanted to. He set a folded throw blanket beside her on the couch.
Zaya didn't speak for a long time. She didn't need to. Her body was saying everything.
Her shoulders were sloped back, loose. Her breathing was steady, but every now and then, she took in a deeper breath like her lungs were trying to memorize what just happened. Her fingers relaxed around the stone but didn't let go.
~ Cael: "How does your body feel?"
She let the question settle. Then she glanced down, her hand tracing along the edge of her skirt.
~ Zaya: "Warm. Open. A little unsteady… but not in a bad way."
Her voice was rougher than usual. The kind of softness that came after being stretched emotionally.
She leaned back against the cushion.
~ Zaya: "Like I'm aware of everything. Like I could feel air passing between my fingers if I wanted to."
She tilted her head to look at him. There was no smugness or pride in his expression. Just care. And that, more than anything, made her want to stay in this moment longer.
He reached toward the blanket, not to wrap her, but to hold it out. She took it and pulled it gently across her lap, not because she was cold, but because it felt like permission to soften.
Her voice came again, quieter.
~ Zaya: "I didn't think it would feel like this."
~ Cael: "Like what?"
~ Zaya: "Like I was... wanted. Even without doing anything."
He didn't speak right away.
Then he said:
~ Cael: "That's the difference. You weren't doing. You were being."
She turned her head to him. He met her eyes.
~ Cael: "There's a kind of intimacy that only happens when you're not chasing the next thing. It's not about where we end. It's about how we arrive."
Zaya exhaled. Her body sank deeper into the cushions.
She let her head tip to the side. His shoulder was there, solid and warm. She rested her cheek against it. Neither of them moved.
And for the first time in a long time, Zaya didn't feel watched. She felt kept.
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
v𝖊𝘭v𝖊𝘵 𝚙𝔯𝖊𝓼𝓼𝗎𝔯𝖊
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
The rhythm of her breath slowed against his shoulder.
Zaya didn't speak and Cael didn't press her to. The silence wasn't awkward. It was layered, dense with everything that had just passed between them.
Her body was no longer tense, no longer holding anything back. She'd let herself be touched without having to perform, without needing to explain what she liked or didn't like. Her body had been listened to more than spoken at, and that alone felt rare.
She closed her eyes.
Her body didn't ache in the way it had after past intimacy, those moments with men who touched too quickly, who rushed to the finish line without reading the middle.
Instead, she felt settle, like the blood in her veins had finally slowed its pacing.
The older man adjusted slightly, careful not to break the connection. His arm rested along the back of the couch, not tight around her, but curved enough that she could lean as much or as little as she needed.
~ Zaya: "I thought I'd be scared after."
Her voice broke the quiet with no apology.
~ Zaya: "Not afraid of you. Just… of what it might stir up."
~ Cael: "And?"
She smiled faintly against his shirt.
~ Zaya: "It stirred up everything. But in the right way."
She shifted to sit up slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.
~ Zaya: "That was the first time someone touched me like I was supposed to be touched slow."
~ Cael: "That's the only way I know how."
Her breath caught, not from shock, but from the truth of it. He didn't say it to charm her. He said it like someone who had learned, through experience or hurt or both, that some things were only worth doing with full presence.
~ Zaya: "Is this what it's like every time?"
~ Cael: "No."
He didn't sugarcoat it.
~ Cael: "Every scene is different. Some are more physical. Some are deeply emotional. Some are messy. But the first… should always be a kind of offering."
She considered that. The word sat inside her like something sacred.
~ Zaya: "I didn't expect to feel… that wanted without being taken."
~ Cael: "You weren't taken. You were met."
The words moved through her like heat.
She nodded, more to herself than to him, and leaned her head back on his shoulder.
Her hand still held the stone, though she didn't even realize it anymore. It rested in her lap, warm from her palm. A silent witness to her choosing herself over fear.
She didn't plan to sleep. But the weight of safety, the pull of what her body had just lived through, lulled her slowly.
He felt her breath begin to deepen, not with arousal, but with rest. And when her hand finally loosened around the stone and fell to her side, he caught it gently, laced his fingers with hers, and stayed right there.
There's no promises, no rush. Just presence.