Where It Belongs

I make the choice before I can think my way out of it.

She's there – same corner, same soft quietness – and something stirs sharp beneath my ribs. I feel it before I move: the warmth, the steady hum that always lives just under my skin now.

But this time, I stand.

I cross the space between us without rushing. My breath is even. My hands loose at my sides. She looks up as I approach – eyes wide for a moment, but not startled. Curious.

"Hi," I say. Simple. My voice is steady. "Mind if I sit?"

She smiles – small, soft – and gestures to the empty chair. "Sure."

The table between us is small. The air hums low around me. I can feel the warmth curling, but I hold it back, steady in the rhythm of the moment. We talk. Nothing deep. Just words: weather, books, the coffee here. She laughs once – quiet and bright – and I feel it sharp in my chest.

Her name is Mira.

When she says it, when she offers it so easily, something in me falters.

I came here thinking I would use this – use her – the way I use the heat, the craving, the secret I carry. But now, sitting across from her, hearing her voice, watching her tuck her hair behind one ear–

I can't.

The thought leaves me hollow.

I smile. I answer her questions. I drink the last of my tea with hands that don't shake. The craving simmers low beneath it all, but I let it stay untouched.

I like the sound of her name. I like the shape of this, whatever it is, whatever it could be.

But I don't pull her into the secret.

Not yet.

The air feels thinner when I leave.

The warmth is still there – low, steady – but I carry it without urgency. It hums under my skin, sharp at the edges, but it doesn't break me open the way it used to.

I sit alone on a bench down the street, breath soft, fingertips resting over the curve of my knee. The craving flickers – it could sharpen, could press harder – but I don't move. I don't chase it.

I think of her.

Mira. The sound of her name still hums at the edges of my breath. The softness of her voice. The way she smiled – bright, a little shy, but real. I feel the heat stir sharper for a moment, but I breathe through it instead of reaching.

I could have used her.

I know that now. The thought curls under my ribs – uncomfortable, clear. I could have fed the craving. I could have folded her into the secret without asking, without care. I could have taken her reflection instead of seeing her.

But I didn't.

I don't.

I press my legs together softly, the weight of it still warm, still alive. But it's enough. Just this. Just carrying it.

The ache lingers as I rise, as I walk home, as the city moves around me. But for the first time, it doesn't leave me hollow.

It leaves me whole.

The thought doesn't leave me.

Long after I'm home, long after the quiet settles, I can still feel it – the shape of her name, the softness of her voice, the warmth that hums under my skin untouched.

But this time, the craving tilts differently.

I don't think of my own hands. I don't think of my own skin. I think of hers.

The slope of her throat. The curve of her fingers. The way her breath caught once, barely, when she laughed. My hands – my fingertips – ache with the thought of tracing over her, of pressing slow and soft, of pulling her closer, guiding her. Not to take. Not to break. Just to feel.

And somewhere beneath that, quieter but no less real, the thought stirs: I want her to touch me too. Not rough. Not wild. Just… *touch.* The kind that lingers. The kind that settles into the breath and doesn't rush.

I shift where I sit. My thighs press together. The warmth curls but I let it live without chasing it down.

I want both.

To touch. To be touched.

I breathe slow. The craving doesn't flare wild. It hums. Controlled. Steady. But now it has shape – flesh, heat, possibility.

Mira.

The thought of her doesn't leave me as I close my eyes, as I let the quiet fold around me. It stays. It settles.

And I let it.