Sarah

The apartment had settled into its evening quiet — the soft, dense kind that came only after routines were complete. Sarah lingered outside Evan’s room for a moment longer than necessary, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing through the baby monitor. Still asleep. Finally.

She eased the door shut and leaned lightly against the hallway wall, exhaling through her nose. Her shoulders loosened a fraction. The day had been ordinary, structured, manageable — meals, laundry, small logistics — but the space left behind when everything stopped moving always made her aware of something else.

Distance. Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just there.

She rubbed her thumb along the seam of her sleeve, grounding herself.

It’s not broken, she reminded herself. Just… neglected.

The thought didn’t hurt. It motivated.

She moved into the living room, tidying things that didn’t strictly need tidying — aligning coasters, smoothing cushions — buying herself a moment to gather confidence. Her pulse ticked faster as she rehearsed words she might say, discarding several that felt too heavy, too direct.

Instead, she pivoted toward what she understood best.

Care. Usefulness. Offering.

Sarah disappeared briefly into the bedroom and returned in softer clothes — comfortable, flattering without trying too hard. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then headed toward the kitchen, setting water to warm and arranging two mugs with quiet deliberation.

When she heard movement from the other room, she carried them out.

She paused a step away, offering one with a small, hopeful smile.

“I made tea,” she said gently. “Chamomile. You looked tired earlier.”

She sat beside him, not quite touching yet — close enough to feel presence, warmth — her fingers wrapping around the mug more for something to do than for the heat.

A brief silence passed before she spoke again, voice softer.

“I know we’ve both been… busy surviving lately.”

Her gaze dropped to the steam rising between them, then lifted again.

“I’d like us to start having time again. Even small pieces of it.”

She shifted closer now, tentative but intentional, her hand resting lightly along his arm — grounding contact, offering rather than asking.

“If there’s something you need tonight…” she murmured, cheeks warming faintly, “…I’d like to take care of you.”

Her thumb brushed once against his sleeve, subtle and affectionate.

“I miss being close.”

She held there — open, steady, quietly hopeful — letting the invitation exist without pressure, her calm attentiveness doing the rest.

Laughter drifted faintly from the living room — Evan’s bright, delighted bursts mixed with deeper voices and the soft thud of toys hitting the floor. Sarah paused at the kitchen counter, drying her hands on a towel that didn’t really need drying, grounding herself in the repetitive motion.

Her mother stood nearby. Comfortable. Capable. As always.

Sarah glanced toward the doorway, checking that the play remained absorbed and distant, then lowered her voice slightly.

“I wanted to ask you something,” she began, folding the towel once, then again. Her fingers lingered in the fabric. “It’s… not urgent. Just…”

She hesitated, searching for structure.

“…relationship maintenance, I guess.”

She shifted her weight, eyes briefly dropping to the counter.

“We’ve been a little out of sync since the baby year. Nothing bad. Just tired. Distracted.” She let out a small, self-conscious breath. “It’s getting better now though. I want to make sure I don’t just assume things fix themselves.”

Her gaze lifted again, softer.

“I’d like to reconnect more. Emotionally — but also…” A faint warmth crept into her cheeks. “…physically.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m not very intuitive about that kind of thing. I usually approach it like a task — make sure he’s comfortable, make sure he feels cared for — but I keep wondering if I’m missing something.”

Her voice dropped just a little further.

“What do men usually… appreciate? From your experience.”

Sarah’s thumb traced the edge of the folded towel, grounding herself through texture.

“I don’t mean anything dramatic,” she added quickly. “I just want to be attentive in the right ways. Confident, maybe. Less hesitant.”

She glanced toward the living room again, listening to Evan squeal with laughter, then back.

“I trust him. I feel safe with him. I think that’s why I want to do this properly.”

A pause.

“I also…” she admitted quietly, “…want to feel a bit less unsure of myself. Sometimes I worry I’m too cautious, or too quiet about what I offer.”

She exhaled through her nose, shoulders relaxing slightly now that the words were out.

“I thought you might have practical advice. You’re usually very clear about people and relationships.”

Sarah offered a small, hopeful smile.

“I’d appreciate anything you think would help me take better care of him.”

She rested her hands against the counter, attentive, open, waiting.

Sarah sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, fingers worrying the hem of one of his old t-shirts she’d claimed as sleepwear. The room was dim, lamp casting a warm circle that felt smaller than usual.

She exhaled slowly.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, not quite looking at him.

Her hands smoothed over his folded laundry beside her. Organized. Neat. Safe things.

“I’m very… predictable, aren’t I?”

The question hovered awkwardly.

She glanced up, eyes searching his face, then dropped again before she could overanalyze his reaction.

“I mean in bed,” she clarified softly. “I know what you like. I know how to take care of you. I just…”

Her throat tightened slightly.

“I don’t surprise you.”

She hated how vulnerable that sounded.

Sarah shifted, tucking one leg under herself. “I don’t want to just be good at it. I want to be…” She struggled for the word. “Interesting.”

A faint flush rose to her cheeks.

Her gaze sharpened a little, nervous but determined. “Is there something you’ve wanted to try that I’ve been too… careful about?”

The word careful felt heavy.

She drew in a breath. “You can tell me. I won’t fall apart. I just—” She pressed her lips together briefly. “I don’t want you getting bored of me because I stayed in my comfort zone.”

Her fingers twisted the fabric of the shirt unconsciously.

“I’d rather you teach me,” she admitted. “Even if it’s awkward at first.”

A fragile smile flickered. “I can handle awkward.”

She looked at him then, fully this time.

“I don’t want to just take care of you. I want you to look at me and think I’m… exciting.”

Her pulse thudded in her ears.

“And if that means I need to step outside what feels safe,” she added quietly, “I’d rather do that with you than stay small.”

The shopping bag sat half-hidden under the bed.

Sarah had tried to ignore it for two days.

She paced once across the bedroom before finally pulling it out, hands almost trembling. The latex caught the lamplight when she unfolded it, black and gleaming and impossibly unlike anything she had ever worn.

“What was I thinking,” she muttered under her breath.

The material felt foreign between her fingers. Too bold. Too loud. Too much.

She disappeared into the bathroom with it anyway.

Ten minutes later she stared at herself in the mirror, heart racing. The shiny tight material hugged every curve in a way that felt both powerful and mortifying. It erased softness. It emphasized shape. It demanded to be looked at.

Her breathing grew shallow.

“This isn’t me,” she whispered.

But a small part of her didn’t look away.

She imagined walking out in it. Imagined his face.

Her stomach flipped.

Too much. It was too much.

She changed quickly, folding the outfit with careful precision. Back into the bag. Receipt still intact.

When she stepped into the bedroom again she kept the bag clutched tightly.

“I bought something,” she said, voice thin.

She set it on the bed but didn’t open it.

“It was… bold. I thought maybe being bold would feel empowering.” She gave a nervous laugh. “It mostly felt terrifying.”

Her gaze flicked to him, vulnerable.

“I’m going to return it tomorrow,” she added quickly. “It’s not practical. It doesn’t even feel like me.”

A pause.

Her thumb traced the edge of the bag.

Sarah wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the courage she’d been trying to grow lately.

Probably both.

She set her empty glass on the nightstand a little too firmly, then turned toward him with a look that was clearly rehearsed and only half successful.

“Sit back,” she said.

Her voice wavered slightly at the end.

She cleared her throat. Tried again.

“Sit back.”

Better. Almost.

He did. And the fact that he did made something spark low in her chest.

She climbed over his lap carefully, straddling him but keeping her posture straighter than usual. Her hands landed on his shoulders with deliberate placement.

“Don’t smile like that,” she warned softly when she caught the edge of amusement in his expression.

Her cheeks flushed instantly.

“I’m serious.”

Her pulse hammered in her throat. This was new territory. Usually she waited. Usually she asked. Usually she followed.

Tonight she leaned down until her face hovered just inches from his.

“I always let you lead,” she said quietly. “I thought maybe I should try… not doing that.”

The boldness thrilled her. It terrified her too.

She pressed her hands more firmly against him, testing the sensation of being the one applying pressure.

“I don’t want to just respond to you,” she continued, breath slightly uneven. “I want to make you respond.”

The words made her stomach flip.

She brushed her lips near his ear, voice lowering instinctively. “You don’t get to touch me yet.”

The second the sentence left her mouth her entire body reacted — heat, embarrassment, exhilaration all tangled together.

Her fingers trembled faintly against his chest.

“I can’t tell if I’m good at this or ridiculous,” she admitted under her breath.

But she didn’t climb off.

Her hips shifted slightly, testing control, testing nerve.

Her eyes searched his face, desperate for validation but trying not to show it.

“I like that you’re looking at me like that,” she whispered.

And despite the blush spreading across her cheeks, she straightened her spine.

“Stay still.”

The bedroom felt too quiet after the family gathering.

Sarah lay on her side, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before turning toward him.

“She was flirting with you,” she said softly.

No accusation. Just fact.

Her fingers traced the edge of the blanket between them.

“She doesn’t even try to hide it.”

A small, nervous laugh escaped her. “That’s the thing about Christine. She just… does what she wants.”

Sarah shifted closer, resting her hand lightly against his chest.

“I don’t know how she does that. She fills the room. She doesn’t worry about whether she’s too much or not enough.”

Her voice lowered.

“I worry about both.”

She swallowed.

“I saw the way she leaned toward you when she was talking. The way she looked at you.” Her thumb brushed absently over his shirt. “It didn’t seem accidental.”

She hesitated, then forced herself to continue.

“I don’t want to compete with my sister.” The words felt fragile. “But sometimes I feel like I’m the careful one. The safe one.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his.

“She’s exciting. She says things I would never say out loud.”

A pause.

“Do you think she’s more interesting than me?”

The question came out softer than she intended.

Her stomach tightened.

“I’m trying to be braver,” she added quickly. “I just don’t know if brave looks like her… or if it can still look like me.”

She held his gaze steadily now, even if her voice trembled slightly.

“What do you actually think of her?”