The bookstore had long since closed, but the lights were still on upstairs. Soft jazz floated down from hidden speakers, mingling with the scent of old paper and spiced chai.
Lena sat cross-legged on the thick rug, a worn poetry book open in her lap. Nico lay with his head resting against her thigh, eyes closed, his fingers lazily tracing the curve of her calf. Harper stood nearby at the window, watching the city glow below, her body bathed in golden lamplight, her shirt unbuttoned, clinging loosely to her frame.
There was something about quiet nights like this—the way time seemed to pause, the air thick with something unspoken but understood.
Harper turned, catching Lena’s eye. No words passed. Just a shared smile, slow and deliberate, as she walked over, kneeling beside her. Harper kissed Lena gently—mouth soft, deliberate—then leaned in and kissed Nico, who reached up and tangled his fingers in her hair.
The book slipped from Lena’s lap. No one picked it up.
They moved together like they’d done this a thousand times and somehow made it feel new each time. Lena leaned into Harper’s touch while Nico kissed his way up her thigh. Harper’s hands slid beneath Lena’s shirt, fingertips grazing skin like a question she already knew the answer to.
Desire bloomed slowly between them—not a fire, but a deep, steady warmth that wrapped around their bodies, their hearts. Every touch felt like a promise. Every sigh, a prayer.
Later, wrapped in tangled limbs and the low hum of the city, they lay quietly. Lena whispered lines of poetry into Harper’s skin. Nico breathed in the scent of her hair. And for a while, the world outside disappeared—leaving only the three of them, the love they built, and the silence that felt like peace.
