Night work.

You are on the bed,

dress half open,

the room holding its breath

like a witness who won’t speak.

I stand between her knees—

salt on my tongue,

her pulse under my thumb—

and the world narrows to heat.

No metaphors for once.

Her mouth says my name as fact.

My hands know their route:

hip, rib, the soft notch

where she starts to tremble.

She draws me closer,

ankles locked across my back—

a clean, deliberate wanting.

The mattress answers in small sounds.

We move without ornaments,

just pressure and breath,

the slow insistence of bodies

that have stopped pretending to be shy.

When I enter her,

the air changes temperature.

Her eyes cut through me—bright, unblinking—

and everything we carried all day

falls to the floor without a sound.

The rhythm is work:

tighten, give, return.

Her hand at my neck,

my mouth at her shoulder,

the sting and the sweetness together.

She breaks first—

a low, startled cry

like a secret finally told—

and I follow her into the dark,

hard and certain,

until the room tips level again.

Afterward, the quiet is heavy,

skin damp, sheets rucked,

her breath running its fingers

through my hair.

I stay inside her a moment longer,

counting the last echoes,

then lay my forehead to hers—

not a promise, not a prayer—

just the truth of what we did,

still warm between us.