I'm awakened by the sharp sound of a notification. The phone, resting on the nightstand beside the bed, vibrates slightly. Still dazed from sleep, I reach out and unlock the screen in a mechanical, automatic gesture.

A name. His.

"Hey... I'm back in town. Want to grab a coffee today?"

My heart skips a beat. Luca. I haven't seen him in years. An old friend—or maybe something more. Something we never had the courage to call by its true name. A bond left hanging, suspended in unsaid words and glances held too long.

"Today?" I type.

"In an hour. Usual place."

I get up quickly, my heart pounding in my chest. I step into the bathroom and let the hot water from the shower run down my body, slowly dissolving the tension. My hands glide over my still-numb skin, and a shiver runs through me as the water grazes my most sensitive curves. It's not just about hygiene: it's preparation, an awakening of the senses.

I soap myself slowly, lingering on my breasts and between my thighs, caressing myself with growing desire. My fingers explore, provoke, anticipate. Stifled moans blend with the sound of water. I let pleasure weave through my thoughts, through unspoken promises.

I dry off slowly, wrapped in the humid air scented with lavender. Choosing what to wear feels ceremonial: tight jeans, snug against my thighs, the fabric rough yet thrilling against my skin; a slightly sheer blouse that subtly reveals my light bra, the delicate lace brushing softly against my nipples with every movement. I leave my hair loose, shiny, falling naturally. I spray a light perfume on my wrists, inhaling with closed eyes, as if trying to memorize it for him.

I gulp down my coffee, hands trembling as I grab the still-warm cup. I sip it standing up, lips barely damp and my mind racing. The aroma fills my nose, but the bitter taste merges with the excitement vibrating inside me. I place the cup down impatiently and slip on my shoes quickly, almost tripping on the laces. My heart beats against my ribs as if it wants to rush out the door first.

Every gesture is loaded with meaning: a quick glance in the mirror, the way I adjust the blouse to leave it slightly open at the chest, fingers lingering on the waistband of my panties under the jeans. Fantasies already tangle in my mind: his hands exactly there, his eyes resting where I'm now playing with imagination. The wait is a warm shiver, and the desire... it's already there, between my legs, alive and trembling, the fabric of my jeans clinging subtly to my damp skin, each shift reminding me of its presence. The denim feels coarse and warm, igniting tiny sparks against my most sensitive nerves. It’s a secret heat I carry with me, every breath fanning it gently, every step a silent stoking of the fire. as I leave the house certain that something will change forever today.

The ride to the café is a whirlwind of thoughts. I take the bus, sitting next to the fogged-up window. Outside, blurred images of the city pass by; inside, everything is crystal clear. Every bump of the road jolts something inside me, like my whole body is anticipating. The seat is cold, yet I feel warm. The jeans press exactly where the thought of him keeps sneaking in.

I catch myself imagining him undressing me with his eyes the moment we meet. My thighs press together instinctively, then relax. I give in to the thought of how it might be. I'm wet already, even now, switching to the metro. I feel exposed, naked though fully dressed, and wonder if everything I'm feeling shows on my face. I bite my lip. I think of him, of how he used to hold me—sometimes just with his gaze.

The café is the same. Light wooden tables, jazz music in the background, the sweet smell of fresh croissants. And him, already seated at our table, with that same smile from years ago and a hint of a beard that makes him look more mature.

"Hanna."

I stand on tiptoe to hug him. He's warm. Real. And in that simple embrace, emotions flood me: relief, desire, anxiety, wonder. I hold him a moment longer, hiding the tremble running through me. My heart races, cheeks flushed.

I want to say something—anything—but the words get stuck in my throat. Shyness clamps my mouth shut but can’t stop the thoughts: I wonder if he's feeling all this too, if he can sense how shaken I am inside. Then, a sudden, intimate, embarrassing thought strikes: I'm so wet... what if the jeans show it? I blush at just the thought, but I can’t ignore it. It’s like a deep, damp secret that makes me feel exposed and alive—too alive.

We talk for hours. About work, travels, memories. About us. Our eyes search each other, every gesture is an invisible thread pulling us back together. But under the table, as he speaks, I move slowly. With a slow, almost imperceptible gesture, I slide my hand over my thighs, touching the denim between my legs, trying to know. My heart hammers in my throat: I'm damp. I feel the fabric slightly darker under my fingers. I blush, trying to steady my breath and conceal the storm of desire building inside me. I shift in my seat, careful not to draw attention, and slide my hand back to my lap as naturally as I can. I glance at him, hoping—praying—that he hasn’t noticed anything, that my face doesn’t betray the heat blooming inside me. I feel the fabric slightly darker under my fingers. I blush. No one can see it, but I know. He doesn’t notice, but I tremble. My mind is flooded with images: his gaze discovering the secret between my legs, his touch there, precise, warm. I want to kiss him but stay still. I want to jump him, but I only smile. And in that tension-charged silence, I keep gently touching myself, pretending only to adjust my jeans. But really, I’m looking for proof of that desire bursting inside me, a desire no one but me fully knows.

We walk together through the afternoon, shoulders brushing, steps synchronized. The city streets glow golden, reflecting in shop windows and on our skin. Every corner feels suspended in time. He looks at me often—not intrusively, but with a gaze so intense I feel naked, as if every hidden thought is visible to him.

My cheeks burn, legs light, but my heart heavy with emotion. I smile without realizing it, replaying every moment. We stop to watch the sunset from a bridge, hands barely touching, the air cooler now. A breeze brushes my skin, stirring that wet spot between my thighs again. I hug myself, trying to hold back the rising heat.

Then he turns, eyes locking onto mine. Silence. Then a question, whispered sweetly, like a long-kept secret:

"Would you show me your place later?"

I just smile.

Evening comes like a promise. My place glows in soft light, red wine on the table, the scent of my skin mixed with his gaze.

We sit close—then closer, as if the space between us is too tense to bear. Knees touch, hands slowly near, hesitate, search. The first kiss is a long-held caress: slow, hesitant, full of memories and old desires. The second is a wildfire. Our hands tangle in hair, fingers trace faces, hips. Mouths fuse in a hungry rhythm, breaths entwine in a crescendo that can't be stopped. Every touch is a silent scream, every kiss a dive into the other's abyss. My body draws to his with a hunger that can’t hide anymore, and as we cling together, I realize I don’t want a single inch of distance left between us.

We end up in the bedroom, undressing each other with tender urgency. His hands, warm and sure, trail slowly over my belly, up to caress my breasts with fierce delicacy. Each button of my blouse falls like a dissolving barrier. His eyes devour me with an ancient hunger. His lips press on my neck, nibbling the tense skin as my hands rip his shirt off, desperate to feel his chest against mine. I try to steady my breathing, aware of how my body trembles under his gaze, but I can't hide how much I want him.

He undresses me slowly, as if afraid I might vanish. His fingers trace my hips, glide between my legs, make me tremble. My back arches under his mouth, now kissing every inch with devoted care. My breathing quickens, every moan becomes a husky whisper, a silent cry of life finally exploding in his arms. Every touch, every motion is a wave crashing through me, and in that moment I know my body is telling him all the things my words never could. I try to keep composed, to keep my voice even, but the need in me is too loud, too raw.

I make love to him like it’s the last night on Earth. Wild, ravenous, but also slow, deep. Every caress says “I missed you.” Every thrust says “Don’t leave again.” All the while, I hold back tears, not just from the pleasure but from how much I want to believe this moment is real, lasting, ours.

We fall asleep naked, entwined, fingers interlaced, legs seeking each other even in sleep, breaths syncing gently like two bodies unwilling to part. His lips brush my shoulder before he closes his eyes, and I pull closer to him, letting the warmth of his body fill the emptiness I’ve felt for too long. In that embrace, in that charged silence, I feel I could stay forever—with nothing more than his skin against mine.

The next morning, I'm awakened by the sharp sound of a notification. The phone, resting on the nightstand beside the bed, vibrates slightly. Still dazed from sleep, I reach out and unlock the screen in a mechanical, automatic gesture.

A name. His.

"Hey... I'm back in town. Want to grab a coffee today?"

My heart skips a beat. Luca. I haven't seen him in years. An old friend—or maybe something more. Something we never had the courage to call by its true name. A bond left hanging, suspended in unsaid words and glances held too long.

"Today?" I type.

"In an hour. Usual place."