Nadra kept coming back—every Saturday, precisely at four. But now, she never came empty-handed.
One week, it was almond biscuits wrapped in tissue, hand-labeled for focus. Another, a tiny wooden bookmark shaped like a cat, slid silently into the spine of a reference book. Once, a jar of homemade lemon curd.
"I saw this and thought of you," she'd say lightly. Each offering felt more like a note—one Samantha could taste, hold, or tuck away.
Their lessons remained structured, but softness seeped between the margins. Nadra began lingering on details—Samantha's handwriting, the way she circled errors like she was coaxing them into blooming.
"You write like you care too much," Nadra teased gently, her finger brushing a curl of Samantha's script.
Samantha didn't refute it.
The questions shifted. "What music do you write to?" "Did you always want to teach?" "Do you believe people can be brave in quiet ways?"
Nadra's answers came cautiously at first. But one afternoon—clouds heavy, air cool—she folded an essay onto Samantha's desk. The title was simple: We Are the Things We Keep Quiet.
Samantha read in silence, lips parting occasionally as if tasting the truth sentence by sentence. The essay was raw—woven with metaphor and confession. Nadra wrote about rooms where she felt small, people who spoke over her voice, the ache of being noticed only when convenient.
At the bottom, one line glowed like an ember:
Sometimes, I think wanting is a kind of bravery.
Samantha blinked hard. Her fingers hovered above the page. And then, she began to speak—not as a teacher, but as someone remembering.
Her last relationship—how it unraveled not from a storm but from silence. How she'd been told she was distant, too observant, too quiet to fight for someone.
"I think I mistook stillness for safety," she said softly. "I didn't know how to ask for more."
Nadra listened, eyes wide. She didn't interrupt. Just nodded once, slow and sure.
That night, the lesson ended with scattered papers and two untouched mugs of tea. Nadra leaned in to collect her things, her shoulder brushing Samantha's.
Samantha didn't move.
She turned—just slightly—and found Nadra watching her.
"I'm not sure what this is," Samantha whispered.
"I don't think we need to name it yet," Nadra replied.
And then it happened. Not sudden, not dramatic—just the gentle slide of Nadra's hand against Samantha's wrist, a touch that asked permission, not possession.
Samantha's room was bathed in low amber—just a single lamp on her desk, casting light like memory. The sheets rustled softly beneath Nadra as she leaned in, hair spilling across Samantha's shoulder.
Their kiss, unhurried, was not about arrival. It was about the silence they shared beforehand. Lips touched with a kind of reverence, like they were reading one another sentence by sentence.
Samantha drew Nadra's face close, her thumb brushing gently beneath Nadra's eye.
"You always look at me like you're memorizing something," she whispered.
"I am," Nadra murmured, fingers trailing the curve of Samantha's shoulder. "It's how I remember being brave."
They undressed slowly—not as choreography, but like shedding words that no longer served. Nadra slipped Samantha's blouse off with careful fingers, pausing at each button. The cotton sighed as it fell. Her gaze didn't stray.
Samantha's breath caught when Nadra leaned down, lips tracing the edge of her collarbone.
"You always hold back when you speak," Nadra said softly against her skin. "But your body doesn't."
Samantha's response was a quiet laugh—more exhale than sound. "I'm learning to say more."
Nadra's mouth found the dip of her sternum, patient and warm. Samantha's fingers slid along Nadra's back, anchoring in the softness of her waist.
Their bodies moved closer, breath syncing like tide and moon. When Nadra pressed her palm to Samantha's chest, her thumb resting near the heart's beat, Samantha covered it with her own.
"Don't stop," she whispered. "Please."
Nadra nodded once. Her hands moved gently—exploring rather than claiming. Samantha's thighs parted slowly, willingly, and Nadra nestled between them, fingers trailing down with care. She kissed the inside of Samantha's knee, then higher.
There was no urgency. Samantha's hips shifted, a slow invitation. Nadra's fingers slipped between folds, finding warmth that had been waiting since the first touch on the bus, since their eyes met across paper and silence.
Samantha gasped—not loud, not sharp, just a tremor. Nadra stilled.
"Is this okay?" she whispered, eyes searching.
Samantha reached for her, cupping her cheek. "It's more than okay. It's you."
Nadra smiled—soft, humbled—and moved again. Gentle strokes, patient rhythm. Samantha's breath grew shallow, her hand gripping the sheet, then Nadra's shoulder. Their eyes didn't close—they watched each other, and in that gaze was something like prayer.
Samantha whispered into the hush, "I didn't think I could want this again."
"I think wanting you feels like finally breathing," Nadra said, pressing deeper.
Samantha moaned then, wrapped in softness. Her thighs trembled, hips arching gently. When release came, her cry was quiet, bitten down into Nadra's name.
They stayed close after—no rush to part. Nadra lay beside her, one hand curled on Samantha's stomach, the other tracing light circles.
"I didn't know it could be this tender," Samantha murmured.
"You taught me how," Nadra replied.