She stretches slowly, unhurried as the black silk clings to her, shifting with every movement like it knows her body by heart. It slides over her thighs, gathers at her waist, teasing with every slow rise and fall of her breath. The room is quiet, but the silk moves against her, whispering as it slips away in some places, lingers in others—warm where it stays, cool where it drifts. She exhales, eyes heavy, lost in thoughts that don’t quite feel like thoughts, more like echoes of things never said, moments never lived but somehow still real. From above, she looks almost unreal—dark hair messy against the sheets, silk wrapping around her and then loosening, like something alive, something needing. And she lets it. Lets it stay, lets it move with her, lets it be the only thing that still knows how to hold her. Waiting. Wanting.
Sometimes the simplest details like the way silk moves carry the heaviest emotions.
