The shower was already running when Ava opened the bathroom door. A cloud of steam greeted her like a whispered invitation. She stepped inside, barefoot, wrapped in nothing but silence and a towel. Through the fogged glass, she could see Iris—standing with her back to her, water falling in soft ribbons over her shoulders.
Ava paused for a moment, just watching her. The gentle rise and fall of Iris’s breath, the way her wet hair clung to her skin, the peaceful curve of her posture — it all felt sacred somehow. This wasn’t lust. It was something deeper. Something quiet and safe.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Iris said, turning her head slightly, a soft smile touching her lips.
“You didn’t,” Ava murmured. “I just missed you.”
She dropped the towel and stepped inside the shower. The warmth hit her skin instantly, making her sigh. Iris reached out, guiding her under the stream, hands settling lightly on Ava’s waist. Their bodies aligned slowly, as if remembering each other all over again.
Ava let her forehead rest against Iris’s, their noses barely brushing. Water dripped down between them, tracing the spaces where their skin met.
“I love this,” Iris whispered.
“This?” Ava asked softly.
“This… you. Here. Like this. No world. No noise. Just us.”
Ava closed her eyes. She raised her hands and ran them down Iris’s arms, her palms gliding slowly over wet skin. Her thumbs pressed into her wrists, a quiet grounding touch. Iris leaned into her, wrapping both arms around Ava’s back, pulling her close so their chests touched, heart to heart.
They stood that way for a long time — not rushing, not needing more — just letting the heat soak into their skin and their silence.
Ava kissed her then. Not hungrily, not even with urgency — just with deep, anchored affection. Her hands cupped Iris’s jaw, thumbs gently stroking under her ears. Iris kissed her back, slow and sure, and a small shiver moved through her when Ava’s fingers trailed down her back and rested at the small of it.
“Turn around,” Ava said softly.
Iris obeyed, and Ava pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades. She let her hands slide over Iris’s hips, wrapping her arms around from behind. Their bodies molded together, fitting like puzzle pieces beneath the water.
Ava rested her chin on Iris’s shoulder. Her hands explored slowly — ribs, stomach, the curve of Iris’s waist. Every touch asked, never demanded. Every breath between them was a promise.
Iris leaned her head back, eyes closed, a sigh escaping her lips. “No one’s ever touched me like this,” she whispered.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m music.”
Ava smiled. She pressed a kiss to Iris’s temple, then another to the back of her neck. “That’s because you are.”
They stayed wrapped in each other — skin soft, lips brushing, hands learning slowly — until the water began to cool. Even then, they didn’t leave. Ava pulled Iris closer, and Iris rested her head on her shoulder, smiling as the last droplets clung to their bodies.
Love didn’t always speak. Sometimes, it lived in fingertips, in gentle kisses, in the way two bodies fit under a stream of water and called it home.
Wrapped in oversized towels, their damp hair still dripping slightly, Ava and Iris moved slowly through the apartment. The storm outside had eased into a light drizzle, tapping softly against the windows like a lullaby.
Iris lit a small candle on the nightstand — vanilla and something floral — then turned off the overhead light. The soft flame flickered, casting golden shadows on the walls. Ava was already curled up on the bed, waiting, one arm open.
Iris slid into the sheets beside her, the cotton cool against her warmed skin. Without a word, Ava pulled her close — one leg tangled over Iris’s, her hand resting at the small of her back.
They lay in silence for a few minutes, letting their heartbeats fall into sync. Iris's head fit perfectly under Ava’s chin.
“I love the way you hold me,” Iris whispered.
“I love having you to hold.”
The words weren’t just romantic — they were grounding. Like they belonged not just to this night, but to every quiet night that had come before.
“You remember that night on the train?” Ava asked softly. “When we sat across from each other but didn’t say a word until the last stop?”
Iris smiled, her fingers tracing idle circles on Ava’s bare shoulder. “I kept staring at your book just so I wouldn’t stare at you.”
Ava laughed gently, the sound low and comforting. “You weren’t very subtle.”
“I was nervous,” Iris admitted. “You looked like someone who’d break my heart with a whisper.”
“And yet you sat down next to me the next morning.”
“I couldn’t help it.”
That morning felt like a lifetime ago — coffee shared in paper cups, long conversations about nothing and everything, hands brushing on subway poles, eyes meeting a little too often to be accidental.
“I wasn’t looking for anything,” Iris said now, her voice muffled against Ava’s collarbone. “But then I looked at you… and I knew I didn’t want to keep looking anywhere else.”
Ava didn’t reply right away. She just kissed the top of Iris’s head and pulled her a little closer.
They lay together like that, hearts pressed, bodies bare beneath the covers, but it wasn’t about skin. It was about safety. Knowing that you were seen — truly seen — and held anyway.
Eventually, Iris whispered, “You make me feel like I'm allowed to take up space.”
Ava touched her cheek gently. “You are. With me, always.”
Outside, the rain faded into a hush. Inside, their breaths slowed, eyes fluttering shut, their fingers still lightly laced.
And long after sleep came, their bodies remained close — a quiet tangle of warmth and trust — wrapped not just in sheets, but in each other.
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