Her Floor. My Mouth. One Quiet Room.

We didn’t need a soundtrack. Just breath, bold silence, and that one weird little machine that made the plants sing.

We didn’t go to the concert.
Didn’t fake excitement or pretend the bass drop could drown out whatever was really going on.
Skipped the chaos. Dodged the dopamine.

We went somewhere quiet instead.

A park she once cried in — alone, on a Monday.
Concrete still holding the shape of her knees.
Grass still whispering I remember.

We walked like we weren’t in a hurry to impress anyone.
No destination. No performative joy.
Just air. Just her. Just that strange little device I brought —
the one that turns plants into music.
Yeah, that’s a real thing. Some chlorophyll confessional.
Didn’t tell her why I brought it. Maybe I didn’t even know.
Maybe I just needed to hear something honest that wasn’t human.

Either way, it worked.

We found a patch of earth.
Laid down like we’d done it a thousand times.
Shared a beer that tasted like a dare.
Not good. Not bad. Just ours.

The sky blushed and the silence got bold.
Her mouth met mine like it wasn’t trying to sell me anything.
Like it didn’t need a climax. Just contact.

Later, back at her place, the floor was all we needed.
Dog curled at our feet like he’d seen this movie before.
Cat pretending not to care, but watching from the shadows.
And us —
two bodies in a quiet room,
figuring out how to stay soft without falling apart.

I could’ve asked to stay.
Could’ve laid beside her — not to cross a line, just to be near.
To breathe in the same quiet.
To maybe shift the shape of her dreams,
or ease the heaviness she still carried from the one that woke her in tears.

She told me about it.
And even though I didn’t have the right words,
I would’ve stayed — just to make sure she didn’t feel alone in it.

But I didn’t.
I told her you should get some sleep, not we.
Not because I didn’t want to stay,
but because I didn’t want to take more than she was ready to give.

And maybe that’s what care looks like, sometimes —
not staying, even when you want to.
Not out of fear.
But out of love that knows how to wait.

There will be another night.
Another bed.
Another kind of sleep that doesn’t have to carry so much.

No confessions. No curated intimacy.
Just breath and presence and the occasional kiss
that felt more like a prayer than foreplay.

No one climaxed. No one cried.
But something in me stayed.

And maybe that’s the whole point.
The nights worth remembering are the ones that don’t try too hard.
The ones that don’t make it to your camera roll.
Because they live somewhere softer.

The kind of night where the grass holds you.
And for once,
you don’t fight it.

And maybe if I’d stayed, she wouldn’t have had to dream alone.

// Scorpio Veil

For the ones who skipped the noise,
who brought the magic without announcing it,
who knew the real moments don’t beg to be witnessed.
This is for the ones who didn’t chase the night—
they let it hold them. Quietly. Completely.