Let Me Be Soft With You
892 Words
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The morning was grey again, but the air felt different. Lighter. Elara sat on the edge of Darian’s bed, legs tucked beneath her, watching the sky blur through the fogged-up window. She hadn’t gone back to her room in three nights. Not because of s*x. Not because of pressure. Just… closeness. Something quiet and warm and patient that wrapped itself around her ribs and made it easier to breathe.
Darian hadn’t touched her beyond what she allowed. He hadn’t once looked at her like a man waiting for something. Instead, he held her like she was something he wanted to protect, not possess. And that made her ache more than anything else.
Because now she wanted him to want more.
Not just with patience.
But with purpose.
She wanted to feel it — the weight of him beside her not just holding, but choosing. Not just giving comfort, but craving her.
And more than anything, she wanted to stop thinking of intimacy as something that took things from her.
She wanted to give it.
To him.
Because he had never once taken what she wasn’t ready to offer.
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That night, they were in the living room again. The fire was lit this time, low and flickering, casting the walls in a soft orange hue. Elara wore his shirt again, her legs bare against the soft wool blanket they shared. Darian sat beside her, not touching, just close. Always close.
She turned toward him slowly, one leg folded beneath her, her other knee brushing against his thigh.
“Can I ask you something?” she said quietly, already knowing his answer.
His eyes lifted to meet hers. “Always.”
Her voice caught in her throat. But she spoke anyway. “Do you want me?”
The silence that followed wasn’t shocked. It wasn’t confused.
It was solid.
He shifted slightly toward her, his hands still at his sides. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
“Then why haven’t you touched me like you do?”
His breath trembled. “Because I didn’t want to move faster than your healing.”
She swallowed. “And if I say I’m ready?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Then I’ll ask again. Not with my mouth. But with my hands.”
Her chest tightened.
“I trust you,” she said.
And that was it.
That was the sentence that undid them both.
---
When he reached for her, it was slow.
Not hesitant.
Intentional.
His hand slid up her jaw first, cupping her cheek like it was fragile, like it might vanish if he wasn’t careful. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, soft and reverent.
Her breath caught.
Not because she was afraid.
But because it had never felt like this.
When he leaned in to kiss her, it wasn’t a question anymore.
It was a choice.
She kissed him back like she’d been waiting to remember how.
And when he pulled her into his lap, her legs straddling his waist, her body flush against his chest, it didn’t feel like giving anything up.
It felt like claiming something.
---
They didn’t rush.
Clothes didn’t fall away all at once.
Her shirt stayed on.
His too.
It wasn’t about nakedness.
It was about presence.
She leaned into his touch like a slow fall, her hands curled into the back of his neck, his mouth tracing her jaw, her collarbone, the place just beneath her ear where he whispered her name like a prayer.
“Are you sure?” he asked again, just once, his voice raw with want but steady with restraint.
She answered with her mouth on his. With her body arching into his. With a quiet, “Yes. I want you.”
He lifted her gently, carried her to the bedroom, and laid her down like she was something sacred.
The first time he touched her beneath the fabric, she didn’t flinch.
She gasped.
But not from fear.
From remembrance.
This is what it’s like when someone holds you like you’re whole.
This is what it’s like when they want you, not your silence, not your skin, not your surrender.
Just you.
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It wasn’t about perfection.
It wasn’t about performance.
It was breath and skin and a steady rhythm that made her feel seen in every nerve ending.
She clutched at his shoulders. He murmured her name into her hair.
Their hands memorized each other. Their mouths wandered without maps.
And when she cried—not from pain, but from something bigger, something like healing—he kissed her tears without asking why.
Because he already knew.
---
When it was over, they didn’t rush to dress.
They stayed tangled in each other, skin to skin, his arm around her back, her cheek against his heart.
There were no words for a while.
Only breath.
Only warmth.
Only quiet.
And when he finally spoke, his voice was thick with emotion.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” she said softly. “You helped me remember I’m not broken.”
He kissed her again.
This time, on the wrist. The shoulder. The curve of her hip.
Everywhere she had once hidden herself.
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And Elara thought:
This is what love is supposed to feel like.
Not fire.
Not pain.
But return.
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- Writer
