She found me anyway.
Of course she did.
Amelia has always had a way of finding wounded things, even when they hide in the dark and pretend they don’t need care.
She doesn’t rush. She takes her time.
Gentle. Soft.
Patient in a way that strips me down more thoroughly than hunger ever could.
Minutes pass…maybe longer.
Time loses meaning beneath the steam and heat and the careful devotion of her touch.
The buildup comes slowly.
Then fades.
Then rises again.
Over and over until I no longer know whether I want relief or if I want to stay here forever, suspended in the quiet mercy of being loved by this woman.
I don’t ask her to take me over the edge.
I don’t think I want her to.
For once, nothing is being demanded of me. Nothing is being ripped from me. Nothing is being taken.
She’s simply giving.
And every thought drifts from my mind except for Amelia kneeling before me, showing me without a single word how deeply she sees me.
How much she loves me.
The pressure builds again.
This time, she doesn’t let it fade.
Still, she doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t turn tenderness into performance.
She simply stays with me.
Steady.
Certain.
Gentle enough to ruin me.
My hand tightens in her wet hair again before I force myself to loosen it. I straighten away from the tile to look down at her, and the sound that leaves me is broken in a way I don’t recognize.
Seeing the love she has for me shining in her eyes pushes me over the edge.
Not with force.
With love.
