Samantha's apartment was soft around the edges—neutral walls, half-read novels stacked on side tables, a single plant thriving near the window. Nadra noticed the mug on the counter, still damp from rinsing, and a throw blanket folded too neatly to have been used recently.
She liked this quiet.
Samantha ushered her in with polite warmth. "You can sit wherever you're comfortable," she said, motioning to the worn couch as she unpacked papers and reference books.
The lesson began cleanly—sentence structure, metaphor use, when to trust instincts. Nadra took notes, but more often she watched.
The way Samantha's fingertips traced underlines across the page. The way she leaned forward, explaining something, and their knees accidentally touched beneath the table.
Nadra didn't flinch. Neither did Samantha.
At one point, they reached for the same paper. Skin grazed. There was stillness. Then a shared chuckle—light but loaded.
"You're very focused today," Samantha said, looking at her—not quite teasing.
"I just… want to be better at this," Nadra murmured.
They worked through two writing samples. As the clock ticked past six, Nadra slowly packed up her things, her hand lingering on the zipper of her bag, waiting for… something.
"Thank you," she said finally, quiet but earnest.
Samantha stood by the door, arms folded. Her smile didn't reach her eyes—not this time. She was thinking.
After Nadra left, the silence rushed in too quickly.
Later that night, Samantha lay in bed with the lights off, the ceiling fan spinning shadows across the ceiling. The quiet was thick—almost velvet around her skin.
She replayed the lesson: Nadra seated cross-legged, head tilted, gaze unwavering. That look had lingered. It had landed. It hadn't let go.
Samantha's fingers skimmed her wrist where Nadra's touch had sparked something. A current, soft but aching.
She didn't plan to think about it. But her body did.
She slipped a hand down slowly—no urgency, just the kind of search that happens when silence becomes a kind of touch itself.
Nadra's eyes.
They burned behind Samantha's eyelids. Curious. Wanting. Almost tender.
Samantha's breath hitched as her fingers parted her skin, found heat already waiting. She bit her lip, pressed deeper, not imagining a scene—only that gaze. The way Nadra looked at her like she was already undone.
Her hips shifted.
Each stroke answered something wordless inside her, a need she hadn't named in years. It wasn't about Nadra's age. It wasn't about right or wrong.
It was about being seen so closely, so fully, that her body felt like a question waiting to be answered.
She moved faster.
Not rushed. Just needed. Her thighs trembled, one heel digging into the sheet, head tipping back against the pillow.
The sound she made when release came was quiet—but not empty. It carried months of wanting nothing, and one lesson that had changed everything.
After, she lay still—hand damp, chest rising and falling.
She didn't feel guilty. She didn't feel pure.
She felt watched. She felt open. She felt alive.