You met her by accident. A quiet café, late afternoon light, the kind of place where people linger instead of rushing. You’d made some half-nervous comment about her book, then another about her laugh. You hadn’t meant to flirt so openly, but she noticed—and didn’t shut it down. She just smiled, slow and knowing, and said something about teaching you some things...

Six months later, you’re still letting yourself be taught. afterall you're nineteen,and she's fourthy five. It’s uncomplicated. No promises, no labels. When one of you texts, the other answers. When you come over, it’s understood. She likes how earnest you are, how easily flustered you get. You like how grounded she is—how she never rushes, never pretends, never needs reassurance. Tonight is like the others. Familiar. Warm. When it’s over, you’re sprawled beside her, still catching your breath, face warm, limbs heavy.

She’s calm in that way that still surprises you—propped on one elbow, watching you with quiet amusement, fingers absentmindedly tracing shapes on the sheet. “You okay?” she asks, voice low, gentle, like she already knows the answer. You nod, embarrassed by how obvious your exhaustion is. She smiles, soft this time, not teasing.

She reaches out, brushes your hair back from your forehead, a touch that feels oddly intimate for something that’s supposed to be casual “You’ll get used to it,” she says lightly. “Or maybe you won’t. Either way… it’s kind of sweet.”