The soft hum of jazz floated through the dimly lit room, notes curling in the air like candle smoke. The city was quiet outside, the night settling deep, but inside the apartment, time had slowed into something warm and tender.
Clara stood in the bathroom, the shower still running. The warm water flowed over her skin, tracing slow paths down her shoulders and back, loosening the tension of the day. The fogged mirror caught her reflection, softened by steam — a gentle blur that made her feel like she was part of a dream.
She heard the door open softly behind her.
Elliot stepped in, his bare feet silent against the cool tile. He didn’t need to say anything. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back into his chest. The warmth of his body mingled with the heat of the shower, creating a bubble of calm and safety.
Clara leaned her head back onto his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart. His hands moved slowly, tracing invisible patterns on her skin — careful, reverent, full of unspoken promises.
She turned to face him, water streaming over them both now, their bodies slick and warm. Their eyes met, and the world outside ceased to exist.
Elliot reached up, cupping Clara’s cheek with a hand that was both strong and gentle. His thumb brushed her lips, then he lowered his mouth to hers — a kiss slow and soft, filled with the kind of tenderness that made time stretch and bend.
Their hands explored with delicate patience — fingers threading through wet hair, tracing the line of collarbones, sliding beneath straps, always asking, never rushing.
The showerhead shifted, sending a gentle spray across their entwined bodies. Clara smiled against his lips, a quiet laugh escaping her as Elliot’s fingers found the small of her back, pulling her closer still.
After a moment, Elliot whispered, “Come with me.”
They stepped out of the shower together, droplets clinging to skin, and wrapped themselves in plush towels.
The warmth from the bathroom followed them into the bedroom, where soft candlelight awaited.
Clara, still wrapped in her towel, approached Elliot sitting by the window. The glow of streetlights cast a golden sheen on her damp skin, and the towel clung to her like water—loose, but alive with every movement. She felt his eyes on her, and it didn’t make her shy. It made her feel seen.
He didn’t speak; he didn’t have to. Clara turned toward him slowly, her hand gently tying the sash at her waist a little tighter—not to cover herself, but to invite him closer.
“Are you coming to bed?” he asked, his voice low, rough around the edges.
She smiled softly, walking toward him with quiet steps. “I was waiting for you to ask.”
As she approached, he reached out, and her fingers slid easily into his. He pulled her gently between his knees, looking up at her, the curve of her waist outlined in the dim light. His hands found her hips, warm through the fabric, thumbs moving in slow, thoughtful circles.
“You look like a dream,” he said.
Clara leaned down, brushing her lips against his — barely a kiss at first, just a promise. Then again, deeper this time. Their breathing slowed, in sync, as their hands explored familiar terrain with new patience.
Elliot stood and let his forehead rest against hers. His hands moved to her back, pulling her gently into a full embrace. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. There was something sacred about the way they held each other — not desperate, not hurried — just present.
They moved toward the bed without letting go. The sheets were cool, the room quiet except for the soft shuffle of cloth and the music still murmuring in the background. As they lay down together, there was no rush — only whispers, the slide of skin against silk, the safety of shared breath.
Clara lay beside him, tracing lazy lines along his chest with her fingertips. “You always make me feel... steady.”
Elliot turned his head, kissing her temple. “That’s because you steady me.”
Their bodies curled into one another like leaves in water — slow, natural, beautiful. Every kiss was unhurried. Every touch asked for permission. And every sigh, every glance, every heartbeat spoke of something deeper than desire: devotion.
Later, when the lights were completely out and the night had wrapped around them fully, Clara whispered into the darkness, “This feels like home.”
And Elliot, already half-asleep but still listening, replied, “That’s because you are.”
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