The night swirls in shadows, under the soft awakening of the moon's pale bloom, slowly seeping across the windowpanes, veiled in thick maroon crimsoned curtains.
Autumn's cold wind knocks gently on the windows—hushed but insistent. The frost's whisper seeps through the cracks, yet the married couple pays it no mind.
Inside, the air is thick with heat and breath, with something passionate and esoteric—under the tangle of soft duvets, two bodies press close. Together, yet not quite whole.
Ishmael presses his heated body against Neva, his warmth sinking into her skin.
His large, calloused fingertips grazes each inch of her body, she is soft and moreish—and he never feels like he's had enough of her.
She's an unending hunger he can never quite sate—sweetness and heat that only sharpen his craving.
No matter how much he takes, the wanting only grows, fierce and insatiable.
Her fingers cling to the collar of his black silk pajama shirt—the cool fabric crushed between her knuckles as his mouth claims hers. His kiss is ravenous, swallowing her whole, stripping away the edges of her thought. His hot breath mingles with hers, insistent—like a man who's been starving for years and has finally found a feast.
He draws her swollen bottom lip between his teeth, tasting her softness—a teasing graze that lingers until a breath escapes her in a shiver against his mouth.
His palm cradles her jaw as he deepens the kiss, their tongues tangling, moving in a slow, aching rhythm—savoring the sweetness that, for a moment, drowns the deeper ache of something missing.
A low, animalistic groan rumbles from deep in his chest—his body tense, aflame with the hunger to become one with her, as deeply and wholly as possible, until no space, no thought, no dream exists between them.
Neva's arms wind tight around his neck, pulling him closer, ignoring the scream for air in her lungs.
The desire in her coils painfully, unbearably.
Ishmael's fingers trail from the hollow of her throat to the dip between her collarbones, grazing over the delicate rift of her bosom.
She shivers, her breath stalling—but not only from desire, but from something else. Something small and knotted, coiling tighter in her chest.
His mouth moves lower—his kisses on her throat, her shoulder—his fingers tugging at the thin straps of her red nightgown down her arms with deliberate care—Neva gasps, gently pushing him by the chest with trembling hands. Her breaths come hard.
His mouth drifts lower—kisses tracing her throat, her shoulder—while his fingers tug the thin straps of her red nightgown down her arms with slow, deliberate care.
Neva gasps, her trembling hands pressing gently to his chest—his heartbeat thudding fast beneath her palms.
Her breaths come hard, uneven.
Ishmael doesn't stop—his lips brush the curve of her neck, lingering, marking, savoring.
The air grows thick and fevered, the wet sounds of kisses tangled with the rustle of fabric as he eases the gown from her skin, aching to see all of her—to claim her wholly.
"Ish—Ishmael," she breathes.
He only hums against her, the sound vibrating through her skin—intoxicated—his mouth tracing her shoulder, her collarbone, drowning in the sweetness of her.
"Wait," Neva whispers, her voice barely audible, chest rising and falling hard between jagged heartbeats. "We should stop."
"I don't want to," he replies hoarsely—his voice deep with yearning, scraped raw from deep inside him.
"I… I just want to ask you something," she manages, her grip tightening on his arms.
"Later," he murmurs, his mouth drifting over her warm skin, tongue gliding the slow curve of her breast.
"Please," she pleads, barely holding back a moan, her fists clenching the sheets, her breath ragged.
He sighs—sharp, reluctant—finally pulling back, though not without stealing one last kiss from her lips.
In the hush of dim golden lamplight, her flushed cheeks glow, her eyes glisten with unshed desire—unsaid words.
He stares at her with awe softening his eyes—so breathtaking, so heartbreakingly silent.
Noticing her lack of response, he frowns, concern threading through the haze.
"What's wrong?"
She turns her face slightly, quietly tugging the thin straps of her nightgown back over her shoulders. He watches for a moment, when she doesn't answer, he strokes her cheek with his thumb and presses his lips to her forehead.
"It's just… something's been bothering me," Neva says softly, her fingers fidgeting with the buttons of his shirt.
Ishmael encloses her hand in his. "I'm listening," he says, shifting beside her—and lying on his side.
Neva swallows hard the lump formed in her throat, hesitating before biting her lip—until he frees it with a gentle kiss.
She finally looks at him, eyes carrying a quiet desperation. "The twins are old enough now…" she pauses for a heartbeat. "Can I—can I attend college?"
He narrows his eyes—the warmth in his gaze shadowing into caution. Her eyes dim as her heart sinks.
"Why?" he rasps, his knuckles tenderly grazing her jaw.
"I just want to study," she replies quietly.
"I can arrange tutors for you here," he says, leaving soft, lingering kisses along her jaw—and down her neck.
"You said it's safe now… even for the twins to start preschool," she murmurs, lips trembling faintly.
"The world will never be safe enough," Ishmael says flatly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to soften the blow.
"You're twisting your words," she says, eyes searching his.
"Am I?" His tone sharpens. "You can study virtually. And I haven't yet decided if I want the children exposed to formal schooling."
Her shoulder sink. Then she slowly leans against him, resting her head on his chest. listening to the steady thud of his heart. His arms immediately wrap around her.
"Sometimes… your protectiveness suffocates us," she says, barely above a whisper. "Even if the world is frightening, I want some part in it."
"You think I keep you locked away?" His tone chills—but the way his hand strokes her hair contradicts it.
"No. I didn't mean it like that."
She frowns and raises her head to look at him. "I don't remember much of the outside," she whispers softly. "I envy those who get to choose. I don't even know what I would choose. But I want the chance."
"You have everything you need here. There are people out there—sick–minded people. I can't let you be exposed to that," he replies, his voice firm.
People he cannot control. A world he cannot restrain.
Neva's frown deepens, retreating into herself. Her spirit folds in.
"Forget it," she sighs, shifting to turn her back on him.
"How can I make it up to you?" he asks softly, tightening his arm around her. He inhaled deeply, drawing in the faint floral note of her hair.
"I don't even know myself, Ishmael," she says, voice breaking at the edges.
"I don't know who I am… aside from being your wife and the twins' mother. I've forgotten everything else."
He remains silent.
She's never said these thoughts aloud before, not like this. But he's done everything for her.
To keep her safe. To protect her. And yet he's failed to protect the fire within her—the light he once fell in love with.
"I have dreams, Ishmael. Ambitions," she says, her voice a trembling thread of hope. "I want to find who I am. Can't you give me a chance?"
He turns her gently, his voice low, skeptical. "And what kind of ambitions?"
She meets his gaze. Her smile is small but earnest. "So many. I want to study nature. Literature. Psychology. Philosophy.
I want to visit mountains and oceans.
Eat in tiny bakeries. Read in quiet libraries. Walk through museums. Hear live music. Just… live. I want to be someone—beyond this house. Beyond even this marriage."
Ishmael says nothing. He only stares at her, unmoved. Bitterness stirs in him.
He cannot give her that kind of future. And he hates that she would even dream of a world that takes her further from him.
Neva's smile falters. Was it wrong to voice this aloud?
"You're right," Ishmael says suddenly, his shadowed eyes drinking in the faint light in hers.
"Isaiah and Naya are old enough. It's time we try for another baby."
A sharp, aching hollowness blooms in her chest—cold and heavy.
She blinks, disbelieving. He shunned her dreams like they never mattered.
Her eyes dim, her heart cold and heavy—she feels as though she's sinking in deep water.
His hands tighten around her arms, with a claiming weight. He leans in, his lips finding hers, his breath warm—heavy and close.
The buttons of his shirt slip loose beneath quick, practiced fingers, and his mouth drifts lower—closer, closer—pulling her into this moment that doesn't feel like love...
And as the emptiness in her heart grows, a cold, quiet understanding cuts in:
He doesn't want to share her with the world.
He only wants to keep her—fragile, elusive, like a glass statue in a golden cage.
The walls of this house, once a place of comfort, begins to lean in with a creeping hunger, compelling in faster—swallowing her breath.
They press in harder and harder—smothering her—and the dreams that gives her life.