You weren’t expecting it.
Not really.
Not the way it began—
just a brush.
A whisper of skin.
Like the scent of vanilla
softening into lavender
right at the edge
of where your breath forgets itself.

It wasn’t even meant to linger,
was it?
Just fingers grazing a wrist,
a laugh too close,
a moment you didn’t hold onto—
but it held onto you.

Because now
you notice the places
he didn’t touch.
How empty they feel
compared to the warmth
still blooming beneath your skin
like heat soaked in silk.

You try not to call it longing.
But your body knows the word.
It knows how it sits in your chest
like quiet gravity.
How it moves, low and slow,
when you let your guard soften
just a little too long.

It shouldn’t feel like this.
But it does.
And that’s the part
you keep coming back to.

The way his touch wasn’t urgent—
but inevitable.
The way your body softened
before he touched you.
Like it had already decided.
Like it had always known
what it was meant to answer to.

Vanilla.
Lavender.
And him.
Somewhere between scent and memory,
he’s there—
fingertips still tracing places
you haven’t even admitted
you want to be found.

It didn’t start with a question,
but it became one—
the kind you feel in your breath
before your thoughts catch up.
The kind that lives in the space
between a glance and a confession.
What would it feel like
to be completely known…
and still touched like that?

You didn’t lean into it.
Not at first.
You just stopped pulling away.
But now…
don’t you notice how you lean,
even in your thoughts?

How the memory hums
in the hollow beneath your collarbone—
low,
quiet,
but pulsing?
That’s where he lives now.
Not as a thought.
As a rhythm.

It wasn’t about the touch.
It was about how it waited.
How it hovered in that space
just before contact—
like breath held
not in hesitation,
but in reverence.

And maybe that was the first ritual.
Not perfume.
Not posture.
Just breath.
Just your body
noticing itself being seen
and softening into it.

It was about how you opened
without being asked.
How something inside you
stepped forward first—
not in surrender,
not in fear,
but in that quiet way
want walks toward permission
without ever needing it.

You’re not thinking about his hands.
You’re feeling them.
Even now.
Even here.

That slight pressure
where no hand rests.
The slow warmth
where no body leans.
The echo of being seen
without being watched.

And how strange is it
that something so light,
so innocent,
has you this undone?

You try to tell yourself
it was just a moment.
But your breath betrays you.
The way it hitches
when you imagine it again.
The way your fingertips
trace your own skin
a little slower
than they used to.

Because it wasn’t just his touch.
It was your own.
The way you learned
to reach for yourself differently after.
The way your skin
seemed to remember his name
even when your mouth wouldn’t say it.

And maybe
that’s the real touch
he left you with—
the one your body keeps giving itself
when he isn’t there
to do it for you.

You’ve tried not to think about it.
You’ve tried.
But vanilla still lingers in your lotion.
Lavender still hides in your sheets.
And your breath?
It still listens for him.

It’s not that you want more.
It’s that you already do.
And when you close your eyes—
when your body stills
and your thoughts soften—
you feel it again.

Not memory.
Not fantasy.
But return.

He’s there.
Inside the space
where resistance used to live.
Inside the ache
that asks to be touched
not hard,
but right.

So breathe.
Feel it.
Feel how you’re already
leaning in again.
Letting it happen.
Letting yourself want it.

Letting yourself need it.
Need him.

The touch that wasn’t supposed to matter
is the one your body keeps whispering for.

And maybe…
maybe that’s the part you can’t let go of.

The way you didn’t mean to open.
But did.
The way you didn’t mean to crave him.
But do.
The way every breath now
feels like an invitation
to fall back
into the memory
of him.

And isn’t it easier
just to close your eyes
and feel it all over again?

Because you were never choosing the touch—
you were choosing
the place inside you
that only he
seems to know how to reach.

And the longer it’s been…
the deeper it lives in you.
Like a scent that clings to the inside of your breath.
Like a warmth you start to feel
before you even realize
you’ve remembered him again.

He’s the softness you crave
when the world gets too sharp.
He’s the quiet ache
beneath your smile.
The reason your fingers sometimes curl
against your palm
without knowing why.

And every time you say it meant nothing—
your body tells another story.
Every night you climb beneath the sheets,
you feel it…
that gentle ache where your thighs remember.
Not what he did.
What he didn’t.

He didn’t ask.
He didn’t take.
He just waited.
And you came to