"Desire is an odd thing. As soon as it's sated, it transmutes. If we receive golden thread, we desire the golden needle."
__ Holly Black.
~~~~~~~~~
Zaya woke slowly.
The light in her bedroom was soft, a pale spill of morning cutting across the ceiling like silk. Her sheets were half-kicked off the bed, twisted around her ankles, her body caught somewhere between rest and heat.
She blinked, exhaled, then reached for her phone. There's no message. She set it back on the nightstand without expression. She hadn't expected anything from Cael, not really. But she'd checked.
She pressed her fingers lightly to her lips. They still felt tender, as if touched. But they hadn't been, not fully. That was the thing. The memory wasn't of sensation. It was of withheld sensation. Of breath held close, of want not granted.
Her body remembered it more than her mind did. She was aware of her own skin in a way that unsettled her. Not from shame. From hunger.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
Her body was still speaking the language Cael had started, one of restraint, patience, anticipation. One that asked more than it gave. It wasn't lust. Not exactly. It was... response.
She sat up and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The apartment was quiet. Sunlight slanted through the blinds, striping the floor. She made coffee without thought, muscle memory carrying her from cabinet to counter. But everything she did felt faintly out of step.
Her mug felt too warm in her hands. Her T-shirt too soft across her skin. Everything was too much, too aware.
She set the coffee down and walked back into her studio space. Her sketchbook sat exactly where she'd left it, still closed, resting gently on the desk like it was waiting.
She didn't open it. Instead, she sank onto the low chaise by the window. The light hit her thighs, her collarbone, the curve of her knee.
She pulled her shirt up over her head, letting it fall behind her, leaving her in only soft cotton underwear and nothing else.
She lay back slowly. Her hand moved to her stomach first: flat, warm. She let her fingers drift along her waist, over her hip.
She closed her eyes and let the night before return in pieces: the way he'd touched her hand, the path his fingertip had drawn up her arm, the way his voice had shaped her name.
She slid her palm down, over the soft slope of her belly, then lower.
Her fingers rested there for a moment, just above the fabric. She remembered the way his touch had stayed light. The way he'd never forced closeness. How every inch of space he left behind made her more aware of herself.
She slipped beneath the fabric. The warmth was immediate. She didn't move quickly. She didn't even breathe differently. She simply let her fingers trace the outline of her most sensitive part, gently, curiously, like she was learning it all over again.
She didn't imagine Cael's mouth or his hands. She imagined his stillness. The way he watched her, not like a man waiting to take, but like one who saw her already whole. The way he stayed quiet even as her breath had quickened. The way he'd said her name like he meant to keep it.
She moved her fingers in small, slow circles, barely any pressure. Her other hand pressed gently against her breast, grounding herself.
She didn't chase release. She followed sensation.
When her thighs tensed, she didn't hurry. When her hips shifted, she let them. Her breath came softer now, less from arousal, more from permission. The permission to feel without apology. To respond without performing.
She pressed slightly deeper, her fingers curling just so, her body warming under her own care. Not Cael's hands. Her own. That mattered.
The heat built slowly, and when it peaked, it wasn't loud. It didn't shake her. It held her.
Zaya exhaled softly and let the tension drain from her body. Her fingers stilled, then withdrew. She rested them on her belly and opened her eyes.
The room hadn't changed. But she had.
Her body felt quieter now. Not finished. Not full. Just… real. Claimed. Not by him. By herself.
She sat up slowly, reaching for her T-shirt again and pulled it back on.
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
v𝖊𝘭v𝖊𝘵 𝚙𝔯𝖊𝓼𝓼𝗎𝔯𝖊
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
By 8:15, Zaya was locking the door of her apartment.
The sky was already high and blue. She wore loose trousers, a structured blouse and light makeup. Her locs were pulled back in a simple twist, clean and sharp. Her sketchbook was in her bag, not because she planned to use it, but because she didn't go to the studio without it. That felt like showing up to a duel without a blade.
The streets were already filling. Coffee carts steaming. Dogs yanking at leashes. She walked with a steady pace. Her body felt better than it had in days, not light, exactly, but less clenched. Less like something was trying to break out of her skin.
The studio sat at the edge of the garment district in a repurposed factory building with too many windows and never enough insulation. She buzzed herself in, climbed three flights, and stepped into the workspace just before 9.
The studio air hit her like it always did: cool, still, just a touch chemical from the solvents someone hadn't recapped properly. The space was already alive with quiet motion. Chairs scraping, graphite on paper, brushwater sloshing in stained mugs. Focused noise. The kind she could sink into.
She crossed the wide floor, weaving through desks and easels without looking up. She didn't need to. Her table was exactly where it always was, in the back, by the big window, with the light that didn't lie.
She dropped her bag, pulled out her sketchbook, and sat.
The chair across from her creaked. It was her mentor, Vivienne.
Zaya didn't look up right away. She was adjusting the position of her pencils, sharpening one down to a precise angle.
~ Vivienne: "You made it out of the gala alive."
The young woman let out a breath, not quite a laugh.
~ Zaya: "Barely. Too many glass walls. Not enough people who know when to stop talking."
Vivienne leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. She watched without speaking for a long moment. And then asked.
~ Vivienne: "Did the work speak to you?"
Zaya nodded, then shrugged, then nodded again.
~Zaya: "Some of it did. Most of it looked like expensive effort. But there were two pieces that stopped me cold. One was just a hand. The other was a figure turned away, almost disappearing into shadow. They weren't loud, but they were alive."
~ Vivienne: "And?"
~ Zaya: "And I stood in front of them for too long. ."
Zaya met her gaze without flinching.
~ Zaya: "I didn't feel jealous. I felt... itchy. Like something under my skin remembered what it was supposed to do."
She paused.
~ Zaya: "But I'm not there yet."
Vivienne didn't respond with advice or approval. Just a single nod.
~ Zaya: "And for the record, I didn't go there to network. I just... needed to be near things that demanded attention without begging for it."
~ Vivienne: "Did it help?"
The young woman looked down at her closed sketchbook.
~ Zaya: "I think it cracked something. But I don't want to force it open too fast."
Her mentor stood, stretched her back, and turned to leave.
~ Vivienne: "Then don't. Work until it opens on its own."
~ Zaya: "That sounds like a lecture wrapped in a compliment."
~ Vivienne: "I'm a mentor. That's my job." She smiled over her shoulder
She walked off, and Zaya was left in the hush of her corner, the weight of her own mind settling again.
She finally opened her sketchbook but she didn't want to fix those pages. She wanted to wait for the one that asked something new of her.
For now, she picked up a pencil. Not to draw a masterpiece. Just to feel the weight of it again. The texture of the paper. The way a line could appear where there had been nothing.