Because for October, it was never just about touch. Never just about release or routine. For her, sex has always been something sacred, something built on trust, emotional truth, presence. Love, translated through skin and silence and breath. After everything—after the distance, the betrayal, the heartbreak, she needed time. Not just to want again, but to feel safe wanting. To believe the wanting wouldn't hurt her.
So I never pushed. Never asked. Not once. I would've waited forever.
And then one night, she reached for me.
I was folding laundry in the bedroom, humming without thinking, half-distracted. She came up behind me, quiet as a breath, and pressed a kiss to the middle of my back, lips barely touching the fabric of my shirt. I turned to look at her, and something in her gaze stopped me still—open and bright, but edged with nerves. Like a hand held out across a bridge not fully rebuilt.
"I want to," she whispered.
I didn't ask what she meant. I knew. I set the basket aside. I took her face in my hands and I touched her the way she deserved, gently, reverently, like every inch of her mattered. Because she does. Because no matter how long it had been, no matter how much we'd had to relearn each other, loving October felt like discovering home all over again.

When October touched me that night, it wasn't just want. It was trust. A trust I hadn't always earned, but one she was offering anyway, like a new kind of vow. I followed her lead, letting her body guide mine, and when she kissed me, it felt like coming home to a place I thought I'd lost forever.
It wasn't urgent. God, no. It was tender. Full of pauses. Our mouths finding each other again and again, like we had all the time in the world to relearn every curve and breath and sound. And we did. I would've spent the rest of my life in that moment if she asked me to.
Afterwards, we didn't move much. Just stayed close. Her skin on mine, her breath slowing against my chest. Then she said softly, hesitantly.
"Can I tell you something?"
I looked at her, and something about the way she asked made me feel like this wasn't just pillow talk. It was something deeper. I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"I used to be scared to say what I wanted," she said. "Even in bed. Especially in bed."
I didn't say anything. Just watched her, waited.
"I have these fantasies," she went on. "Things I never told anyone. I didn't think I was allowed to want more than tenderness. To want to take the lead. To be bold. To tell you exactly how to touch me, or what to say."
I felt my heart slow into a different rhythm, but I didn't speak because this wasn't about me. This was about her opening a door she'd kept shut for years.
She laughed, but it was shaky. "I sound ridiculous."
"You sound brave," I said.
Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, and in that instant, I saw her. Really saw her. The woman she'd always been, under the layers of shame and silence and self-protection. Fierce. Desiring. Soft and powerful at once.
"I didn't think you'd want that version of me," she whispered.
"I want all of you," I said. "Especially the parts you've hidden."
She kissed me again then, different this time. Slower, but with intention. Her hands moved with certainty, and when she rolled on top of me, her eyes never left mine.
"I want to try," she said. "To show you who I've always been... when I'm not scared."
In that moment, I would've handed her anything. The moon. My soul. Every inch of my body, just to prove she was safe now. Loved. Wanted. When we made love again, it was different. She told me what she liked. Took her time. Took me. and I followed gladly, gratefully, like she was both compass and destination.