Soft In All Right Places – Way 6 – The Second Time

The house felt too clean without them in it.

No TV humming in the background. No creaking floorboards above me. No wine bottles clinking after dinner. Just the silence of every room being mine.

The dog was the only one keeping me company.
An old mutt with floppy ears and terrible breath.
He followed me from room to room like he thought I’d disappear if he blinked.

Two weeks. That’s all my parents needed. Some resort with turquoise water and hammocks. They asked me to stay behind, to keep an eye on the house, walk the dog, water the plants. Easy.

I said yes before I even thought.

I wasn’t going anywhere yet.

No college, not yet.

I’d decided to wait. Figure myself out. Work a little. Think harder. The plan had come to me slowly, like warm water filling a tub. I wanted to go into exhibitions, installations, art that didn’t need a frame.

So I gave myself a summer.

To pause.

To be alone.

To decide.

On the fifth morning, I saw him.

Daniel.

I was in an old T-shirt, no bra, one sock on. The dog was dragging me down the block toward the corner where the honeysuckle grew over the fence.

And there he was.

Bent over the hood of his mom’s car, shirtless, sweat down his back.

Still lean, but thicker now – arms like someone who’d carried furniture lately, not just books.

I stopped walking before I realized I had.

He turned.

Saw me.

Smiled.

“Lila?”

His voice hadn’t changed much. Just dropped slightly. Still slow. Still careless, like he was never in a rush to finish a sentence.

“Didn’t think you were still around,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag.

I swallowed.

The dog barked once and sat down.

“Just for a couple weeks,” I said. “Dog duty.”

He glanced down at the leash. Then at me.

Then back again.

And nodded.

“Nice to see you.”

He meant it.

And it hit like memory…hot and heavy.

Because all I could think was:

You were my first.
Even if you never knew it.

We started bumping into each other.

The second time was at the mailbox.
The third was when I passed his mom’s yard while she was out pruning hydrangeas.

By the fourth, he was sitting on my porch, barefoot, sipping a beer he brought over without asking.

“Still the quietest street in the country,” he said, watching a moth slam itself into the porch light.

“Nothing changes here,” I said.

“Except you.”

I blinked.

He didn’t smile when he said it. Just sipped and looked ahead again.

I’d forgotten what his voice could do.

It was warm gravel. Half-lazy, half-thoughtful. The kind of voice that sounded like it already knew the ending, and didn’t need to rush you there.

That voice had followed me into my earliest fantasies.
Under the covers.
In a sleeping bag at summer camp.
In the dark, behind my own eyelids.

But now it was attached to a real man.
One with forearms. Stubble.
The faintest scar at his collarbone.

He didn’t flirt. Not really.

But he didn’t leave, either.

We sat on the porch again the next night. Then again.

My legs curled under me, T-shirt stretched over my knees, wine glass sweating in my hand.

The dog lay between us, snoring.

And then, finally, he said:

“I used to wonder if you ever saw me watching you.”

I didn’t answer.

I just looked at him.

Really looked.

His face was different now. Older. More certain.

And when he leaned in, I didn’t stop him.

His mouth was warm.

A little too soft.

But familiar.

And maybe that’s why I let him keep going.

Even when something in me whispered: This isn’t what you thought it would be.

We didn’t say anything as we stood.

He followed me through the hall, slow and quiet, like he remembered the way just as clearly as I did.

My bedroom door creaked the same way it always had.

The lights were off.
Just the streetlamp casting gold through the blinds.
Enough to see shapes. Hands. Skin.

He kissed me first…again.
Slower this time.
Both hands on my waist.

He unzipped my hoodie like it was something fragile. Let it fall to the floor.
Then lifted my T-shirt, pausing halfway to see if I’d stop him.

I didn’t.

I didn’t stop him when he unclasped my bra either. Or when his mouth brushed over my chest. Or when his fingers slid under the waistband of my shorts.

It was my first time.

He didn’t know that.

I never told him.

And I’m not sure it would’ve mattered.

We lay down.
And he moved over me.
Careful.
Slow.

He kissed my neck like it meant something.

Entered me like he was trying not to break anything.

It didn’t hurt.

But it didn’t open anything either.

He made a quiet sound when he finished.
Pressed his face to my shoulder.

And then, just like that…he went still.

I stared at the ceiling.

The blinds sliced the dark into soft, crooked shapes.

My thighs were sticky.

But my body was… untouched.

Unmoved.

Unfinished.

I waited a minute. Maybe two.

Then slid out from under the sheet.

He didn’t stir.

And I didn’t want him to.

The floor was cool under my feet.

I left my clothes where they were. Just walked to the bathroom like I lived alone.

Closed the door without turning on the light.

The mirror caught just enough of me – soft curves, flushed chest, the vague pink where his mouth had been.

I leaned against the sink.

One hand braced.
The other slid down my stomach, between my legs.

I didn’t think about him.

Not his breath, not his weight, not the way he said my name.

I thought about how I should have felt.

About the version of me who’d imagined this.
Who’d stared out the window with her hand under the sheets.

And then I touched myself exactly the way I needed to be touched.

Not rushed.
Not gentle.
Not careful.

Like I knew what I was doing.

Because I did.

When I came, it was quiet.
No moan. No drama.

Just release.

My thighs trembled.

I pressed my forehead to the mirror.
Felt the heat leave me in waves.

Then I washed my hands.
Drank from the faucet.
And looked at myself.

Eyes wide. Mouth open. Hair stuck to my cheek.

Real.

He was my first fantasy.
And that’s all he should’ve stayed.

← Previous Chapter
Next Chapter →