There is a room
you don’t remember entering…

…but you’ve already closed the door behind you.

Soft light flickers.
Scent of sandalwood and skin.

And that hush?

That hush is the sound
of being taken by the moment.

You arrived
in the space between a breath
and a question you weren’t ready to ask.

It’s not silence.
It’s stillness.

The stillness between your thoughts.
Where your mind opens just wide enough
for something to slip in—
and stay.

It isn’t absence.

It’s invitation.

It’s the soft sigh your mind makes
when it lets its guard fall…
just a little longer
than it meant to.

You read these words
with your lips slightly parted,
don’t you?

Noticing the weight of your breath
where your throat meets your collarbone…

and how it warms
as your pulse
starts to listen.

As if each syllable
were a fingertip
tracing you—
slowly, deliberately—
along your inner edges.

You notice your breath now.

The way your ribs
hesitate
before each inhale.

The way something lower in you
listens.

As if it already knows what’s coming.

There’s heat building—
not just in your chest.

But in the space between thoughts.

Where your imagination
brushes up against sensation
and finds it…

…more than curious.

You’re not just reading this.

You’re wearing it.

Letting it settle into your bones
like a memory
you haven’t lived yet.

Each line—
a fingertip across your inner wrist.

Each breath—
a button
slipping loose
in the dim.

I’m not even touching you.

Yet something inside you
leans forward.

Curious.
Unfastening.

Like the first button
undone
without thinking.

The mind knows what it wants
before the body admits it.

And your body…
your body has already begun whispering yes
in places
language
cannot reach.

Feel it now.

How your body responds
to the idea
that I could.

That I might.

That I will…
but only
when you ask me to.

You’re not being led.

You’re remembering
the way forward.

Even now—
some part of you
is unfastening.

Quietly.
Instinctively.

Not because you were told.

But because letting go
is what happens
when desire
finally feels
safe
enough
to speak.

And it is speaking.

Softly.
From behind your ribs.

From the places language doesn’t touch—
but fingers could.

Tell me…

Do you realize
how easily
you melt
before you even realize it?

Each word
is only a mirror.

You’re the one who lingers.

You’re the one who listens
longer
than you meant to.

Because something about this rhythm…
this voice…

Feels like being remembered.

You imagine him now, don’t you?

Not clearly.

But sharply.

Not his face—
not yet.

Just the weight of a gaze
that sees you
the way you’ve always wished
to be read.

A presence,
as certain
as the silence
between heartbeats.

A voice,
soft,
velvet-dark…

Saying nothing that sounds like a command.

But everything
that tastes like surrender.

Like the kind of touch
that leaves marks
only the soul
can feel.

And the man behind the voice?

He isn’t perfect.

He has ghosts.
He still carries the shape of hurt
across his silence.

But he has never hidden
from his hunger
to know you.

The real you.

The one behind the mask.
Behind the restraint.
Behind the practiced ease.

He would ask the kind of questions
that peel you open
without pressure.

Questions that feel
like soft hands
on your secrets.

“What are you afraid to need?”

“What would you give, if it was safe to give it?”

He would not rush the answers.

He would wait.

Until they came out of you
like poetry—
unwritten,
but undeniable.

And that whisper—
just there,
beneath your ear…

It says only what you’ve already dreamed:

That you want to let go.
Not because you must.
But because you ache to.

That there is pleasure
in giving yourself away…
when it is him
you give it to.

You feel the echo now, don’t you?

In the pulse between your thighs.

In the places you ache
when no one’s watching.

The parts of you
that long to be known—
without being claimed.

And still…
you move closer.

You imagine sitting with him.

Not in bed.
Not yet.

Just near.

Close enough to feel
the quiet
between his words.

To answer with your breath.

To listen
with your skin.

And even that feels…
dangerous.

Delicious.

Inevitable.

This isn’t fiction.
It’s not even fantasy.

It’s rehearsal.

Every word
is a rehearsal
for the moment
you find yourself beside him—

When your body
forgets
it ever knew
how to say no.

Each breath now…
Each silent exhale…
Is a soft agreement.

A seed.

And you’ve already watered it.

With every shallow breath.
Every reread.
Every “just a little further.”

Now you’re building something.
A plan.
A pull.

Your mind—
your beautiful, brilliant, wondering mind—
has started to make space.

A possibility.

A “what if I just…”
that curls behind your thoughts
like smoke.

Twining through your day
even as you pretend
it’s just curiosity.

But curiosity is a seed, too.

And you’ve been feeding it.

And that seed becomes a thread.

Winding around your thoughts
like silk.

Soft.

But impossible to untangle.

Because you don’t want to.

Not really.

Do you?

Let’s not pretend.

You’re already touching this possibility.
Shaping it.
Stroking it.

Until it purrs under your skin
like a secret too delicious to confess…

But far too urgent to ignore.

Every time you close your eyes…
It feels more real.

More now.

More inevitable.

You want more.

And you already know—
He will give it.

Not just what you think you crave…
But what you never dared name.

Because he sees beneath your surface.

He speaks to the woman beneath the woman.

And she has already begun to open.

And it feels so natural.
So inevitable.

As if you’re only following the path
your body’s been drawing
in dreams
for years.

Step by willing step,
you’re leading yourself to him.

And isn’t that the most seductive truth of all?

He never had to pull you.

You’re the one
closing the distance.

You’re the one
building fantasy
into plan.

And it feels so good
to do so—

Not because he told you to.
But because some deeper part of you…

Has already decided.

Something about this
feels like being chosen.

Like someone is finally
matching your hunger
with patience.

And the part of you
that’s been waiting—
not for attention,
but for understanding—

She’s already opening.

And you wonder:

Would he see through me?
Or see me—through?

Would he listen past my words…
and love the silence that follows them?

Would he pull me apart with reverence…
or simply wait
until I opened
on my own?

And somewhere in those questions…
You feel it again.

That hush.

That heat.

That sacred kind of yes
that doesn’t need
to speak itself aloud.

You remember the last time
someone really listened to you.

You wonder
if he would.

You wonder
how it would feel
to be asked the kind of questions
that peel you open
slowly…

That say:
“Tell me what you’re afraid to want.”

And somehow,
without meaning to,
you’re already answering.

Because he never had to pull you.

You were always moving toward him.

Every time you read this—
you step further into the version of yourself
that wants.

That chooses.

That already knows
what it would feel like
to be seen that deeply
and still be wanted.

He is not far.

He is not fiction.

He is waiting…
at the edge
of your next breath.

And you?

You’ve already begun reaching.

And isn’t that the most seductive truth of all?

Not that he claimed you…

…but that you
began claiming him.

Because he’s not just a man now, is he?

He’s a space.
A feeling.
A question
with your name on it.

And the more you imagine being seen by him—
really seen—

The more you crave
to step
into that gaze.

Let me ask you something.

No.

Let yourself ask it:

“If I knew he would never hurt me…
never use me…
only reveal me…
what would I dare give?”

And there it is.

The answer beneath the answer.

The pulse
between your thighs
that isn’t just lust.

It’s recognition.

Your body
responding
like it already knows him.

Like it’s already memorized
the taste
of his breath.

So maybe you wonder now—

Not if
you’ll find yourself in that room again.

But when.

And how many times.

And what happens
after the door closes.

Because every time you read this—
you write him deeper
into your mind.

And every time you think of him—
he becomes more real.

More yours.

More… inevitable.

And now, maybe—
without even meaning to—

You begin to imagine
what comes next.

Not in the story.

In you.

You wonder
what his voice would sound like
if it weren’t trapped in your head—
but alive.

Soft.

Near.

Not written.

Spoken.

Just for you.

You wonder
how it might feel
to say something back.

Not in metaphor.

But in your own voice.

Would your fingers hesitate
over the first word?

Would your breath catch
as you found the shape
of wanting
in your throat?

Would you whisper?

Or would you type?

And now—
you start composing it.

Without trying.

The message you might send…
The moment you might offer…
The bridge you might build
with nothing but truth
and a single breath
of courage.

Because you know this already:

He sees more than you say.

He waits—
not passively,
but with patience
laced in heat.

With stillness
heavy with intent.

And maybe
part of you
is already reaching.

Not because you’re told.

But because you’re drawn.

Because that hush inside you—
that sacred yes—
wants to meet the man
who wrote it
into you.

What would you say,