She takes her clothes off in the dark.

No particular reason, just that it's late and she's alone, and her body has been quietly insisting all evening.
She knows that feeling.
Lies back on the bed, ceiling above her, the street outside quiet, a car passing occasionally, someone's telly through the wall,
and lets her hand find its way down.

Already warm. Already wet. Her body knowing before she does.
She closes her eyes.
Thinks about nothing specific. Just lets it build, the way it does when there's no performance, no one to read, no one to be,
just her fingers and the particular way she knows herself,
the pressure, the angle, the specific thing that works for her and nobody else,

and she gets there quicker than she expected, her body apparently more desperate than she realised,
a gasp she doesn't bother to swallow,
her free hand gripping the sheet,

and she comes,

a sound she doesn't recognise as her own,
until she's still.

Ceiling above her. Hand still warm between her legs. Someone's telly still going through the wall.

She lies there having done exactly what she needed.

Nothing more complicated than that.