The quiet of the house has a texture today—thick, soft, and slightly suffocating. I made lemon cake, read a chapter, watered the plants. The routine is a beautiful cage.

I caught myself staring at the rain sliding down the windowpane and thinking about the weight of a man's hands. Not just any hands—hands that know how to hold, to explore, to claim. The memory of that kind of touch feels like a story I read long ago, the details growing fuzzy.

My body feels like an instrument that's been put away in its case, perfectly tuned but never played. I ache for the friction of skin, for the heat of a mouth on my neck, for the desperate, messy sounds two people make when they're forgetting everything else. I want to feel a cock harden against my thigh because of me, to have my pussy worshipped until I'm sobbing with release. I want to be taken on this pristine living room rug, to have my composure utterly shattered.

But for now, there is just the scent of lemon and the sound of the clock.