The morning moves softly.
I dress without rushing. The clothes I choose aren't unusual, but I catch myself smoothing the fabric a little more carefully. The shape of me feels different these days – nothing dramatic, but enough that I notice the weight of my hips, the soft stretch of fabric over my thighs, the way the air brushes over skin before layers settle into place.
The warmth doesn't pull at me sharply. It hums instead – low, steady, patient.
The café is quiet when I arrive. Pale light. The soft clink of glass. Familiar spaces. Familiar sounds.
She's there.
The dark-haired girl. The one who always sits alone with her books. She doesn't look up at first, and I don't stare. But when I settle into my usual corner, our eyes meet briefly.
Something passes there.
Not sharp. Not a spark exactly. Just… a glance that lingers a little longer than it should.
I hold it.
Not for her. Not for the thrill of being seen. But for the quiet knowledge that I can. That I am here, and I am whole, and I am carrying something no one else knows.
The moment passes. She looks down. I sip my tea. The warmth hums quietly beneath breath and skin, but I don't chase it.
I don't need to.
The warmth doesn't leave when I get home.
It stays low. Gentle. Something I carry without needing to name.
I set the mat down in its corner. Stretch. The light through the window is soft. The house is quiet except for the sound of my breath.
I move carefully.
Each stretch pulls at the shape of me. The length of my legs, the way my thighs shift and press. The slow curve of my hips as I rise and lower through each motion.
I catch myself in the mirror. Not by accident this time.
The breath in my chest quickens slightly – not sharp, not chased. But I notice it. The way my body moves. The way the fabric of my leggings clings to the softness of me. The way motion itself feels… good.
Not arousing. Not yet.
But… good.
I press deeper into a stretch, hands braced, the curve of my back pulling gently. The reflection shows everything: the line of my arms, the shape of my thighs, the soft weight of my hips. I move through each pose slowly, deliberately, and something quiet stirs beneath the surface.
By the time I finish, my breath is light, my skin flushed. Not from the warmth this time, but from the motion.
But the warmth… is there too.
Always there.
I smile without thinking as I roll up the mat.
Later, I find myself standing at the mirror again.
Not to touch. Not to chase. Just… to see.
The glow from the workout still lingers beneath my skin. My hair is loose. My breathing soft. I study the way my body shifts when I tilt my hips, the faint pull of fabric when I lift my arms, the way the curve of me rises and falls with each breath.
I'm not perfect. I don't want to be.
But I like what I see.
I trace my fingers lightly over the line of my waist. Down over the softness of my stomach. My thighs. My breath catches – not sharply, not urgently – but the warmth stirs there, low and familiar.
I don't move beyond that. I don't need to.
The idea stays with me, though. Quiet. Steady. Like a thread winding itself through the days.
I carry it to bed. I carry it to sleep.
And when I dream, I dream soft and whole.