“Don’t look,” she whispers, and, humoring her, I close my eyes.

I can hear the sound of her moving, the soft rustle and blur of her, the rain-light pat of her bare feet on the matting. I keep my eyes closed so lightly I can feel the shiver of my eyelids, follow her around the room with my ears. The room is full of little busy sounds, a landscape of them, and all of them are her.

“Are you–” I can see her without seeing her, the sudden cinnamon scent of her hair as she turns her head, verifying. I can’t keep the smile off my lips as I shake my own in negation. I don’t need to look, not at her, not any more.

I don’t open my eyes, but my hands move without my volition, operating on sound and scent and the subtle changes in the currents of the room, swift and slow and precisely sure.
She is warm to the touch, warm and soft and cinnamon-sweet, and the curve of her hip is a memory unfolding forever beneath my fingers. She sighs, something between acquiescence and complaint, yielding into me, her warmth suddenly against me, around me, consuming me, and.

She inhales, and I know the precise changes in angle her flesh will make against mine as she does.She exhales, and I bend to capture the outflung breath with my lips, draw it in, breathing her in, silencing her words as I open so much more than my eyes.

I don’t need to see, not now, not here, not any more.
I only need her.

Prompt: Write a story in 14 sentences.

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