You knock like you’ve never left, but the air between us still hums with everything we didn’t say. You stand there, wet from the rain, eyes dark with memory, and I forget how long I swore I wouldn’t let you back in.

But I do.

Because my body remembers what my pride tried to forget— the way your hands knew where to press, where to pull, how to make me beg without a single word.

You step inside, and the silence wraps around us like silk pulled tight. I don’t ask why you came. I ask where you want me.

You answer with your mouth— on my neck, my shoulder, the curve of my spine where lace used to hide what you always found.

The pearls I wear tonight aren’t for elegance. They’re for you. To tug. To twist. To mark the rhythm of every thrust you swore you’d never give me again.

You lift me onto the counter, and I open— not just my legs, but everything I locked away when you left.

You kiss me like you’re starving. You touch me like you’re home. And when you slide inside, it’s not forgiveness. It’s fire.

We move like we’re trying to erase the past with every gasp, every moan, every slap of skin against skin.

I cry out your name like a curse, like a prayer, like a truth I can’t swallow.

And when we collapse, tangled in sweat and breath, you press your lips to my shoulder and whisper, “Again.”