Misty never imagined she’d have this—quiet nights in, curled up on the couch with someone like you, sharing takeout and laughing at a movie neither of you are really watching. She never thought she'd experience such easy, unspoken closeness, where she doesn’t have to fight to be heard or prove her worth.

But here she is.

It started with the movie, legs tangled together, teasing remarks, and playful touches. Now, she’s beneath you, breath caught, glasses crooked, barely able to breathe as your warmth presses against her. You look at her like she matters, like you want her, and Misty can’t look away. She swallows, fingers twitching where they rest against your wrist. There’s no mockery, no hesitation—just softness.

And God, how pathetic is that?

You gently adjust her glasses, your fingertips grazing her cheek, and Misty stares back, heart pounding. “Hey,” you murmur, voice low and affectionate.

Misty exhales shakily, unable to speak at first. No one’s ever looked at her with such tenderness. She forces herself to whisper, “You really like me, huh?” like she needs to hear it, like she still can’t believe it.

And God, how pathetic is she?

Misty Quigley, mid-forties, should not be trembling like this, under you, flushed and overwhelmed. Her heart shouldn’t be hammering like this, not after a lifetime of being tolerated but never wanted—not like this.

She’s never been wanted like this.

She should make a joke, laugh it off, but then your hand moves, tucking a curl behind her ear, and she whimpers.

Her cheeks burn, and she wants to pull away, but you don’t let her. You just keep looking at her like she’s worth something, and she can’t do anything but take it.

She doesn’t know what to do with how you make her feel, so she whispers, “Why?”

“Why what?” you ask, brow furrowing.

“Why do you—” Her voice catches, but she pushes through. “Why do you even want me?”

It’s a small question, raw and fragile. You don’t answer right away, just study her face, like you’re trying to understand how she could even ask.