Kelvin had said he might not come around. He said it casually, like it didn’t matter, and I pretended it didn’t either. I spent the evening doing nothing in particular; scrolling, moving things around, opening drawers I didn’t need to open.

That was how I found it.

At the back of the drawer, wrapped in an old nylon, like something I had been hiding from myself. I picked it up and laughed quietly. It felt strange holding it again, like running into an old friend you haven’t spoken to in years. There was a time it had been my comfort, my release, my little secret. Then life happened. Stress happened. Love happened. And somehow, I stopped needing it.

Or maybe I just stopped making time.

I stood there for a while, just looking at it, remembering moments when it had helped me sleep, helped me breathe. I didn’t overthink it. I locked the door and climbed onto the bed, suddenly feeling shy even though I was alone.

When I turned it on, the sound felt loud in the quiet room. My heart started beating faster for no real reason. I lay back, spreading myself out like I deserved the space, like I wasn’t rushing or hiding.

I closed my eyes.

It wasn’t wild or dramatic. It was slow, familiar, almost comforting. My body reacted before my thoughts could catch up. I pressed my lips together to stay quiet, gripping the sheets, feeling heat build in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. I was so focused on the feeling; on myself, that I didn’t hear anything else.

Until the door opened.

“Fuck,” I said out loud.

Kelvin stood there, keys still in his hand, shock written all over his face. My first instinct was to cover myself, to apologise, to explain. But before I could do any of that, he walked closer.

“You don’t have to stop,” he said.

My chest tightened. He took it from me gently, like he wasn’t mocking me or judging me. He watched my face instead of my body, like he wanted to understand what I was feeling. When he changed the speed, my breath hitched without my permission. I felt exposed in a way that wasn’t embarrassing.

Then it died.

I groaned, half laughing, half frustrated. “I haven’t charged it in forever,” I muttered.

He didn’t say anything. He just moved closer, his hand replacing it, warm and sure and very real. That was when I completely stopped thinking. Everything after that blurred into heat, closeness, skin on skin. There was nothing fancy about it. Just want. Just need. Just us.

After we were done, I pulled the duvet over my head, suddenly shy, suddenly aware of myself again.

“Why are you hiding?” he asked, amused.

“Because you caught me doing something embarrassing,” I said.

He laughed softly. “It’s not embarrassing. It’s you.”

I peeked out from under the duvet and looked at him. He looked relaxed. Happy. Like nothing about what he’d seen changed how he felt about me.

Maybe that was the best part.

Sometimes desire isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s quiet, private, and a little awkward. And sometimes, when someone walks in at the wrong or right moment, you realise there’s nothing wrong with wanting yourself.

That night, I didn’t feel ashamed.

I felt human.

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