I told myself I was done with love after the last heartbreak. Not the dramatic kind with shouting and slammed doors, but the quiet one that leaves you doubting yourself. The kind that makes you replay conversations at night, wondering where you became too much or not enough. I carried it with me everywhere. It made me cautious. It made me tired. It made me build walls even when I craved connection.

Moving on didn’t feel like healing. It felt like survival. Smiling when you want to cry. Saying “I’m fine” until you almost believe it. Wanting to love again, but being scared of losing yourself one more time. That was where I was when Seun came into my life.

Seun was gentle. Consistent. The kind of man who listened without interrupting and remembered small things. There were no games. No pressure. Still, I stayed guarded. I liked him, but liking someone felt dangerous. Commitment felt like handing someone a weapon and hoping they wouldn’t use it.

When he invited me to his place one evening, I almost said no. My mind raced with fears. What if I led him on? What if I felt nothing? What if I felt too much? But something in me was tired of hiding, so I went.

We talked for hours. Not small talk. Real things. Love. Fear. The past. I told him how heartbreak makes you shrink, how it makes you question your worth. He didn’t try to fix me. He just listened. That was when I saw him differently. Not as a risk, but as a safe place.

The air shifted quietly. The kiss came slowly, like a question. When I answered it, everything I had been holding back rushed forward. I felt wanted, not rushed. Desired, not pressured. When I hesitated, he whispered that he could wait. That he didn’t mind. That choice alone relaxed my body.

But I didn’t want to wait.

I wanted him.

The clothes came off without urgency, just hunger mixed with trust. His hands explored me as if he were learning my language. I felt seen. Felt present. Felt alive in a way I hadn’t in a long time. When he finally entered me, I gasped, not just from pleasure, but from how safe it felt to open myself again. Every movement was slow, intentional, and deep. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer, afraid of nothing in that moment.

I climaxed with his name on my lips, tears slipping down my face. Not from pain but from release. From realising I hadn’t lost my ability to feel.

After, we lay tangled together. His arm around me. My head on his chest. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was full. That was when it hit me. I didn’t fall in love because of the sex. I fell because of how it made me feel human again.

That night didn’t heal everything, but it changed something. It reminded me that heartbreak doesn’t get the final word. Sometimes, love comes softly, through trust, touch, and the courage to open yourself one more time.

+ posts