It started on a day I wouldn't have remembered otherwise.
The air was soft. Warm, but not unpleasant. One of those lazy afternoons that seem to stretch without hurrying. I had errands to run – nothing unusual. Groceries. A few small things I'd been meaning to pick up. Just enough to fill the hours.
I dressed like I always do. Light skirt. Soft tights. A long-sleeve top in pale grey, thin and close enough to the skin to feel held but not tight. Comfortable. Modest. Proper.
The streets were quiet. The shops half-full. I moved the way I always move – careful, calm, polite. I don't rush. I don't draw attention. I've always believed there's something soothing about blending into the softness of the world.
But somewhere along the way, I felt it.
It wasn't sharp. It wasn't even really something I noticed until I noticed it. The way the fabric of the tights pressed when I stepped, the subtle shift as my thighs brushed. A warmth. Gentle. Small. Something low that I would have ignored if I hadn't paused.
I stood by the crosswalk, waiting for the light. My hands rested lightly on the strap of my bag. Nothing moved. Nothing called for my attention. Just stillness. And beneath that stillness, the warmth sat – small, unspoken, almost soft enough to forget.
I pressed my thighs together once, absently. Not even consciously. The warmth deepened.
And then the light changed, and I moved on.
I didn't think about it for the rest of the day.
Not until later.
It came back that evening.
Not immediately. The day unfolded the way it always does. I unpacked the groceries. I cleaned the kitchen. I took a slow shower, let my hair dry in the open air. The warmth I'd felt on the street seemed far away by then – faded, quiet, easy to set aside.
But it came back.
I was brushing my hair when I caught it – the smallest flicker of memory. The press of fabric. The weight. My fingertips stilled on the brush. My breath slowed.
It was nothing. Of course it was nothing.
I finished my routine, pulled on a fresh set of soft clothes: loose sleep shorts, smooth cotton underwear, an oversized t-shirt. Familiar. Harmless. Comfortable.
I stretched out on my bed with the lights low and the window cracked for air. My book rested open on my lap, but I wasn't reading it. My thoughts circled without landing, soft and aimless.
And then, without thinking, my hand drifted.
Just resting over the fabric. Just the faintest press of fingertips.
The warmth came back instantly. Gentle. Steady. My breath caught before I realized it. My body shifted – barely, subtly – but the sensation deepened.
I didn't move beyond that. I didn't chase it. I just let my palm rest there, still and soft, while the heat stirred low and warm beneath the layers.
I didn't even know what I was feeling.
But I knew I liked it.
The night stretched long and quiet. And when I finally fell asleep, my hand still tingled faintly at my side.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew: I'd want to feel it again.
The next morning was uneventful. I went through the motions of a quiet Sunday: breakfast, laundry, tidying. The soft normalcy of it settled over me like it always does.
But the thought returned.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just there. Like a note half-heard beneath the sound of everyday life.
By afternoon, I found myself standing in front of my dresser. Not for any particular reason. Just looking. Fingertips resting on the edge of the drawer.
I opened it slowly. Pulled out a few things: different fabrics, different weights. Cotton. Silk. Lace I hadn't worn in months. I let my fingers trail over each one, not for vanity, not for fashion – just for texture.
I didn't know what I was looking for. But I knew the weight of certain fabrics made something inside me shift. I wanted to know which ones. How much. How deep.
I chose the softest pair – pale pink, thin but not too thin – and slipped them on beneath simple leggings. The feel of it was instant: not sharp, not thrilling, but familiar. Comforting. Close.
I lay down on the bed again. I didn't rush.
My hand drifted down, pressing lightly through the layers. The warmth stirred. It felt... right. As if I belonged to the stillness. As if the world could narrow to just this: softness, breath, weight.
I stayed there a long time.
I never moved beyond that. Never chased more than the warmth.
But when I finally stood up, I was smiling without meaning to.
The wanting wasn't frightening. Not yet.
It just felt... right.