The night was velvet — soft, still, stretched across the sky like a blanket meant just for two.
Benedicta lay beneath it, hair like ink across the sheets, lips parted as if holding onto a secret. She didn't speak — she didn't need to. Her eyes did all the talking, and they said one thing: stay close.
Emma sat beside her, one hand resting near hers, not touching yet… just close enough to feel the space between them buzz.
He leaned down — not to kiss, not to take — but to watch.
To see the way her chest rose and fell.
To admire how her breath caught when he whispered her name.
"Benedicta…" he said gently, voice barely louder than the breeze.
She blinked up at him — soft and slow, like her whole body trusted him.
His fingers brushed her wrist. Nothing wild. Just a touch that said, "I see you."
And then another… up her arm.
And another… pausing near her shoulder.
His mouth hovered there — lips parted, but not pressing.
"You're glowing," he whispered. "Like the stars are watching you with envy."
She shivered.
Not because of cold.
Because of closeness.
And when he finally touched her face — hand against cheek, thumb just under her eye — she leaned in.
Not with a gasp.
Not with a moan.
But with a breath.
A long, quiet breath that meant:
"I'm ready."
And Emma? He didn't move fast.
He kissed her like a secret.
Held her like a promise.
And loved her like the night would never end.