The Singles Dating App

Sex and the singles app

She made herself sit down and open the damn app, thumb hovering like it might bite. Most profiles slid past in a blur of forced smiles and half-hearted prompts—until one face stopped her. Warm eyes, crooked grin, something easy in the shoulders. She exhaled before she meant to. And just like that—one tiny, careless swipe—her evening changed shape.

For a moment she just held the phone, letting the possibility settle. That old tug of hope—the one she didn’t trust anymore—pulled at her in spite of everything. This was the part that always tripped her: the maybe. Maybe he’d be genuine. Maybe he’d be trouble. Maybe he’d be the kind of man who made her forget why she’d sworn off trying.

But beneath the hopeful tug, something familiar twisted in her chest. She’d been here before—twice—giving her heart too quickly, too openly, only to watch it get handled carelessly. The first one walked away like closing a book he never finished; the second shattered her belief in good men so completely she still flinches at the memory. Love had left her bruised where no one could see it, raw in places that still hadn’t healed. So she’d made a quiet promise to herself: no more risking the soft parts. Not for a while—not until she could trust herself again.

Sex felt safer. Want felt safer. Bodies felt simpler.

Hearts… not so much. 

She stares for a while, reads his profile, scrolls through his pics. Okay, this could be a good one. But maybe it’s a fake profile, maybe he’s not the age he says, maybe he’s not who he says he is. The doubts creep in—negative thoughts, old memories.

But she knows there’s only one way to find out. She sends a message. He responds within a couple of minutes.

He’s seen her profile too.

She sends another, his response is immediate. Pretty soon time is flying by. It’s not just easy conversation—it’s charged conversation. The kind that slips under her skin in ways she hasn’t felt in years. A joke lands and she feels it drop lower than it should. He’s funny, quick, confident in that quiet masculine way that’s dangerous to someone who hasn’t felt truly wanted in a long time. She feels her stomach flip, her breath catch, her body starting to come alive just from the way he types her name.

She keeps smiling at her phone—more than she’d ever admit to anyone.

There’s a low hum under every message between them, the kind that hints at hands and mouths and heat long before either of them says a single explicit word. She wants him already—wants the rush, the touch, the thrill of being seen not as a nice woman or a careful woman, but as a woman with a pulse.

When he finally asks, Coffee tomorrow? her yes comes too fast.

He notices.

He answers with a teasing, That eager, huh?

Well, she types. I haven’t had good coffee in a long time.

LOL, he replies, rolling-eyes emoji and all.

It shouldn’t make her grin. It does.

And somehow, that only sharpens the spark between them.

They keep talking. They don’t want to stop—neither of them pretends this is innocent. This connection lights like dry tinder: two grown adults who know attraction when they feel it and let the current carry them.

By the time they say goodnight, they’ve already set a second date for Friday at the pub. The rules of politeness make them hold back, make them pretend they’re not thinking about kissing before dessert… but they both are, and they both know it.

***

She barely sleeps.

By morning, she’s nervous and restless and too aware of her own body. She tries on three tops before landing on the one that makes her feel confident without looking like she tried too hard.

When she walks into the café and sees him smile, the air shifts.

God, he’s handsome.

That firm jaw, the soft brown scruff, the shoulders that fill out his shirt in a way that makes her imagine leaning into him. And he looks at her like he’s taking all of her in—her eyes, her dirty-blonde hair, her curves—and she feels the recognition hit him.

She feels seen.

Not politely.

Not passively.

But physically.

They sit.

Coffee is ordered.

And then it begins.

The glances.

The teasing.

The way he leans in just slightly when she laughs.

The way her knees brush his under the table and neither of them pulls back.

Her body wakes up fully—nerve endings, pulse, breath, all of it.

She hasn’t felt this alive in years.

He’s respectful, grounded, careful with his space… but that glint in his eye gives him away. He sees her wanting. Sees the hunger she’s spent half her life tucking away. And instead of shying from it, he’s drawn to it—steady, deliberate, like he wants to explore her and let her explore him right back.

Three hours slip by like a half-forgotten dream.

The kind where she forgets to check her phone, forgets the world, forgets the armor she usually carries.

And when he walks her to her car and they pause—both of them leaning in just slightly—they feel it.

The temptation.

The spark.

The ache.

They kiss.

It’s polite. 

A brush of mouths, a test, a promise tucked inside the wanting. And God, the wanting is there—undeniable, humming between them like a held breath.

And the wanting only grows as they step back, as they head toward their cars instead of toward each other. The only thing keeping them from more is the promise of Friday night.

It couldn’t get here fast enough.

Their First Real Date — The Pub

The place is loud in a comforting way—warm lighting, clatter of plates, the smell of burgers and pizza thick in the air, the long-established scent of a place where half the town has eaten for decades. She spots him at a small table near the arcade wall, and the second he stands to greet her, the night tilts. Those shoulders again. That smile. And God… the way his eyes travel down her body before he catches himself.

She feels it—want—curl low in her abdomen.

They sit too close for strangers, not close enough for what’s simmering under the surface. His knee brushes hers beneath the edge of the table, and neither of them bothers to move. Their server comes, takes their order—two burgers, one pizza to split “just to try”—and he gives her a look that feels like a shared joke already.

The private jokes come quickly: the terrible playlist overhead, the couple making out too aggressively in the corner booth, his confession that he can’t eat onions on a first date because he “respects the mission.” She laughs, really laughs, and something inside her comes alive. Nerves, pulse, breath. All of it.

At one point she leans in to say something, and his gaze drops to her mouth so unmistakably she forgets what she was about to say. She feels seen—Seen in a way that makes her thighs press a little tighter under the table.

By the time dinner is done, they’re both pretending not to stare.

He pays the bill without asking, without making a show of it. “Darts?” he says, nodding toward the back of the bar.

“Darts,” she agrees, even though her hands are slightly unsteady.

The Dart Game

The board glows under the neon lights. The music is louder here, the air warmer. He hands her a dart, their fingers brushing—quick, electric. She steps to the throw line and tries to focus, but he’s behind her now, close enough that she can feel the heat of him along her back.

“Here,” he murmurs, low enough that only she can hear. “Hold it like this.”

He reaches around her body, guiding her hand—not grabbing, not pressing, just enough touch to make her breath stutter. His other hand settles at her hip without meaning to. Or maybe he absolutely means to. She doesn’t pull away. She can’t.

The dart flies wide. They both laugh, but the warmth of his chest near her spine is making it hard to think.

Then it happens.

She steps back.

He steps forward.

They stop too close, eyes locking for just a second too long.

The restraint snaps.

She doesn’t know who reaches first—maybe both of them—but their hands meet, fingers lacing for a heartbeat before they pull apart only to grab again, harder this time. It’s not frantic. It’s not sloppy. It’s urgent, controlled, deliberate.

He leans in, murmuring against her hair, “We need to leave.”

“Yes,” she breathes. “Now.”

They don’t finish the game.

Back at His Place

The drive is a blur.

The walk to his front door even more so.

He fumbles with the key once, laughs under his breath, then gets it open.

The moment they’re inside, the first kiss hits—nothing like the polite coffee-date brush. This is deeper. Hungrier. The kind of kiss that erases the last forty-eight hours of guessing and replaces it with certainty.

She melts into him, her hands in his hair, his hands at her waist, pulling her close as if he’s been waiting far longer than two days. That want she’s been trying to hold back surges up, hot and insistent.

Clothes come off in pieces, but not ripped—explored.

His mouth finds her skin, and she feels the shock of being touched exactly where she aches.

When she reaches for him, she freezes—not in fear, but surprise.

He’s not circumcised.

Her breath catches.

Not hesitation—fascination.

This is new.

New in a way that lights every nerve.

New in a way that draws her curiosity forward like a flame.

He watches her reaction, eyes warm, waiting for her lead.

She runs her fingers along him, learning the difference, enjoying his soft gasp, and something inside her tightens with wanting.

He’s gentle.

He’s respectful.

But beneath that, there’s an edge—a kink he doesn’t force, doesn’t push, just lets surface in the way he grips her hands, the way he murmurs against her throat, the way his breath shivers when she moves against him.

They fit.

God, they fit.

Body to body, rhythm to rhythm, pulse to pulse.

She didn’t know she could come alive like this.

Didn’t know her body could want this much.

Didn’t know touch could feel like being freed.

Much later—long after the heat settles, long after the second round and the laughter and the soft collapse—they fall asleep tangled, without meaning to. No decision. No discussion. Just bodies giving in to exhaustion and comfort.

Morning finds them in the same position.

Her cheek on his chest.

His arm around her waist.

Both pretending they don’t like it as much as they do.

She hasn’t woken up next to someone in a long time.

And she hasn’t liked it in even longer.

But she doesn’t pull away.

Not yet.

Morning Scene

She woke before he did, tucked in the crook of his arm, her thigh draped over his. For a moment she just stays there, feeling his slow breathing against her cheek, feeling the warm, heavy weight of his hand resting at the small of her back.

Then he shifts, waking, and the first thing he does—without thinking—is pull her closer.

His morning voice is low, gravel-soft.
“Mmm. Hi.”

She feels him hard against her hip, unmistakable, and her entire body responds—pulse, breath, heat—coming alive all over again. He feels it too; she can tell by the way his hand tightens just slightly, the way his hips press before he catches himself.

Their eyes meet.

That’s all it takes.

A spark.
A jolt.
A shared, aching yes.

She leans in.
He tilts his head.
Their mouths meet in a slow kiss that could so easily turn into more—his hand sliding down her thigh, her fingers curling in the back of his neck. Their bodies know exactly where this is going.

Then he pauses.
Just barely.
Just long enough for reality to slip in between the heat.

“We should…” he murmurs, breath uneven.

“I know,” she whispers, even though every nerve in her body is screaming don’t stop.

They linger there, foreheads touching, breathing each other in, fighting the same impulse.

“If we start,” he says quietly, “we’re not leaving this bed.”

“And neither of us showered,” she teases, but it comes out shaky, want-heavy.

He laughs softly, kissing her once more—deeper this time, like a promise he’s absolutely going to cash in later.

She slips out from under the sheets, skin warm, legs unsteady.

He watches her with that look—hungry, affectionate, wanting—while she pulls her underwear on, then her jeans, then the soft top she wore the night before.

Every movement is slow—partly because her body aches from him, partly because she’s stalling, because leaving doesn’t feel good, not this morning.

By the time she’s dressed, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hair mussed, eyes still dark with the wanting they didn’t follow through on.

He stands, wraps an arm around her waist, and walks her to the door smelling like sleep and arousal and regret.

“This is going to kill me,” he says, half-smiling.

“Friday’s close,” she says.

“Not close enough.”

He closes the door behind her with a sigh of regret.

She steps into her car feeling empty-handed and overfull at the same time.

Sunday – The Quick Check-In

Nothing heavy.
Nothing clingy.
Just—

Him: Hope the rest of your Saturday was good.
Her: It was. But my mind kept drifting…
Him: Same here.
Her: Good.
Him: Very good.

A breadcrumb of wanting they both feel.

Monday Night – The Flirty Picture

She’s lying in bed, lights off except the glow of her phone, thinking about him more than she should. She snaps a photo—nothing explicit, nothing she’d be ashamed of. Just a hint: her bare shoulder, the strap of her tank top sliding down, her hair loose, her mouth soft.

She sends it with a simple:

Her: Goodnight.

He replies immediately.

Him: …You trying to kill me?
Her: Just saying hello.
Him: No. You’re saying something else.
Her: Maybe.
Him: Send another.
Her: Friday is coming.
Him: That’s too far away.
Her: You’ll have it all again soon.
Him: I want it now.
Her: Then you’ll want it even more by the time you get it.

A beat.

Him: You’re gonna wreck me.
Her: Good.

Wednesday Night – Text Exchange

Him: I’m losing my mind over here.
Her: That bad?
Him: Worse. I want you here. Tonight.
Her: I have to be at work by 7:00 tomorrow.
Him: Me too.
Her: Then you know that’s not going to work.
Him: We’ll figure it out.

A moment later, her phone vibrates again—this time with a picture.

He’s bare-chested, soft pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips, the outline of his erection impossible to miss.

She nearly drops her phone.

Her: You don’t play fair.
Him: No, I don’t.
Him: But I play really, really good. Remember?
Her: Yes. I remember :)-

He sends another message before she can overthink it.

Him: Come over.
Him: It’s Wednesday. Two more nights.
Him: I’ll keep you warm all night long—if you think you can keep up.
Her: Oh, I can keep up.
Him: Prove it.
Her: Friday.
Him: You’re killing me.
Her: Good.
Him: I’ll make you pay for this 🙂
Her: I’m counting on it.

She sets the phone down with her heart thudding, her body humming, the image of him burned into her mind.
Friday feels impossible.
But God, the wanting is delicious.

Thursday Night – The Tease Before Friday

It’s almost midnight when her phone buzzes.

He’s sent a picture—same soft cotton pajama bottoms as the night before,
only this time they’re slung really low on his hips, low enough to make her breath hitch.
His hand is lifted toward the camera, two fingers curled in a slow, unmistakable
come here motion.

No words.
Just the invitation.

She stares at it for a long moment, pulse jumping, her whole body waking up in a single wave of want.

She sends one back.

White lace.
Panties eased low on her hips.
Her sleep top soft and thin, her body clearly responding to him,
but the photo cuts off at her throat—
no face, no identity, nothing but suggestion and heat.

A beat passes.
Then her screen lights up again.

Him: Ugh!!

Just that.
One frustrated, wanting groan shaped into three letters.

She smiles, slow and wicked, settling deeper beneath her sheets.
Friday is still a day away,
but they both know they’re not sleeping much tonight.

Friday Afternoon — The Almost-Too-Far Tease

Her phone buzzes at 2:13 p.m.

She’s in the break room, waiting for the microwave to finish cycling through its last thirty seconds, when she glances down.

It’s him.

Him: Are you free for one second?

Her pulse jumps. She glances at the door—wide open—then types back.

Her: Maybe. Depends on what you’re about to do to my sanity.

A beat.
Then—

Him: I’ve been thinking about you all day.
Him: And last night.
Him: And Wednesday.
Him: And pretty much every second since you walked out my door.

She swallows hard. Someone walks behind her to get coffee, and she tucks the phone closer to her body like she’s shielding a secret flame.

Her: You’re going to get me fired.
Him: Worth it.
Him: I’m desperate over here.

She types back slowly, every word a tease.

Her: Desperate, huh?
Her: How desperate?

Her thumb trembles as she hits send.

There’s a long pause—dangerous, nerve-wracking—and then:

Him: I keep imagining your body against mine.
Him: Exactly where we stopped on Saturday morning.
Him: I haven’t stopped thinking about that moment.

Heat floods her chest. Her neck.

She steps slightly away from the counter, turning her body so anyone entering the room can’t see her screen.

The microwave beeps, loud and oblivious.

She ignores it.

Her: If I weren’t at work…
Her: If you were here right now…

He replies instantly.

Him: Don’t.
Him: I can’t take it.
Him: I’ll walk out of this building.

She bites her lip—actually bites it—because she can feel him through the phone: restless, keyed-up, pacing somewhere, trying not to lose it.

She makes it worse.

Her: I’m warm just thinking about you.
Her: I’ve wanted you all week.

A three-dot bubble appears, disappears, appears again.
He’s struggling with what he should say versus what he wants to say.

Finally:

Him: You’re killing me.
Him: I want you right now.
Him: Tell me something that’ll hold me till tonight.

She stares at the doorway again. Empty.
It is a terrible idea.
She types anyway.

Her: If you were here…
Her: I wouldn’t even make it past the hallway.
Her: You’d have me pressed up against the first wall you found.

His answer is immediate and unfiltered:

Him: I need to leave work.
Him: Right now.
Him: Right this second.

She laughs silently, chest trembling.

Her: Six hours.
Her: You can make it.
Her: I want you hungry when you get to me.

There’s a long pause.
Then just one word:

Him: Already.

She has to close the texting thread to stop herself from sending more.

She grabs her food, walks back to her desk, heartbeat too fast, fingers unsteady, the ache of anticipation knotted… in more than one place.

It’s the longest afternoon of her life.

Friday Night — At His Apartment

She parks in the same spot she used the week before, palms damp on the steering wheel, heart thudding higher than she wants to admit. Her body has been humming with want all day—hell, all week—and every step toward his building feels like walking straight into a promise.

He opens the door before she even knocks.

Barefoot.
Loose jeans.
A soft grey T-shirt that sits perfectly across his chest and shoulders, the fabric stretching just enough to hint at the body underneath.

His smile hits her like a warm hand on her spine.

“Hey,” he says, voice already lower than it was this afternoon.

She steps inside. The door closes behind her.
And that’s when she sees the kitchen counter.

White takeout cartons. Four of them. A bag of steamed dumplings. Egg rolls. Two sets of chopsticks.
Comfort food.
Easy food.
Food that doesn’t take attention away from what they’re both here for.

“Chinese?” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” He leans a shoulder against the doorframe, watching her reaction.

“Why Chinese?”

He gives that slow, deliberate half-grin that’s been undoing her since the first night.
“Because it’ll taste just as good reheated later after we’re done.”

She stops breathing.

He doesn’t say after we eat it later.
He says after we’re done.

The meaning lands warm and heavy in the center of her body.

She takes one step toward him.

Then another.

Then she tosses her purse onto the couch without looking where it lands.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

But she’s already reaching for him.

The kiss hits hard and hungry, a week’s worth of teasing snapping into place. Her hands slide into his hair; his hands grip her waist, pulling her against him in one smooth, urgent motion. There’s no hesitation this time, no polite pause—they already crossed that line once, and tonight the need is sharper, hotter, impossible to slow.

He presses her back into the door with a soft thud, mouth deepening against hers, breath catching between them. When she gasps, he follows it, kissing her again, harder, like he’s been replaying this moment in his mind every night since she left.

She’s trembling, not from nerves but from desire finally given somewhere to go.

He pulls back just enough to look at her—really look at her—eyes dark, jaw tight.

“Dinner,” he murmurs, breath hitching. “Is gonna get cold.”

She laughs, throat tight, lips swollen.
“We’ll reheat it.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in again. “We will.”

Their mouths meet before she can say anything else.
All the want, all the week’s tension, all the teasing—all of it pours out between them.

Tonight isn’t about talking.
Tonight is about bodies remembering exactly why they wanted this in the first place.

She pushes him back only enough to shrug off her overshirt. It’s too warm this time of year for a jacket, but she didn’t want to walk across the parking lot with nothing but a spaghetti strap top. When she pulls it free and lets it drop, the soft blue straps frame her shoulders, and he can tell with one glance that she’s braless—and excited.

Something in his breath falters.

He steps right back into her, kissing her deeply, hands framing her face for one slow, devastating second before they slide down her body like he wants every inch.

Her hands slide under his shirt, palms warm against his skin, fingers curling at his back. When her nails drag lightly upward, he lets out a quiet, unguarded sound and pulls her closer, hips meeting hers without hesitation.

His hands explore with a different kind of certainty:
one gliding beneath her blouse, fingers splaying across her ribs, lifting her closer;
the other slipping under the waistband of her pants sliding down to cup the curve of her butt, guiding her against him in a way that pulls a soft, choked breath from her throat.

She answers by pressing her mouth to his neck, kissing along the warm skin there, feeling him shudder under her touch. He tightens his grip on her butt—not controlling, just anchoring, grounding them both to the moment they’ve been craving since the second she left him last week.

The room becomes small around them.
The rest of the world falls away.
There’s only the rhythm of their bodies and the heat rising between them.

He lifts her—smooth, effortless—and she wraps around him automatically, surprised by the strength in his arms and the ease with which he holds her. He walks them toward the couch, kissing her, murmuring her name like he’s been wanting to say it against her lips for days.

Her fingers trail down his torso as he lowers them onto the cushions, and he inhales sharply, pressing into her touch like he’s desperate for more. His mouth finds hers again, slower this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that makes her arch into him without thinking.

Clothes come off quickly, but with an urgency that feels almost reverent.
Like discovering each other is its own pleasure.
Like touching is a way of saying everything they can’t put into words.

By the time they finally pause—just long enough to breathe, to look at each other, to feel the full weight of what’s about to happen—the takeout is completely forgotten.

Much later, when their bodies have softened into each other and their skin is still warm from everything they’ve done, he laughs quietly against her shoulder.

“I told you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss there, “dinner would get cold.”

She smiles, fingers tracing the line of his spine.
“And it was worth it.”

When they finally sit down to eat, the food is absolutely cold.
And they absolutely don’t care.

The next Spark

She’s wearing only her panties and the soft blue spaghetti-strap top, the fabric clinging lightly to her skin. He’s in boxers and an old T-shirt, casually, undone, like round two is not only possible but inevitable. They both feel it—a low, steady pull in the air between them.

Each beep of the microwave brings steam and warmth to the kitchen, each carton another burst of scent and flavor. They dish out the food with bare feet brushing under the table. The fortune cookies sit unopened, daring them to believe whatever ridiculous promise is tucked inside.

The beers add a loose, fizzy edge to their private little party. Her laugh gets softer, his grin gets wider. Their conversation zigzags between teasing and flirtation, always circling back to the heat under the surface—the spark that hasn’t dimmed since she walked through his door.

When the last bites are eaten and the final sip of beer is swallowed, he leans back in his chair, watching her with a look that says the night is nowhere near finished.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he says, voice low.

She raises an eyebrow. “Would you like some company?”

The grin that flashes across his face hits her low in the stomach.
“I wouldn’t want the shower without it.”

They don’t make it to the bathroom in any kind of hurry. Clothes come off a piece at a time between kisses—her top slipping over her head, his shirt tugged away, the soft thump of his boxers hitting the floor. By the time he reaches the tub to turn on the water, she’s already touching him, hands skimming everywhere she can reach, like she’s learning him all over again.

He threads his fingers through hers and helps her step over the rim of the tub. The moment he pulls the curtain closed behind them, his mouth finds hers, warm steam rising around their bodies as they press close again.

The shower becomes another playground—laughing, kissing, teasing, slick skin and warm water, hands sliding, breath catching. They steal touches and moments between bursts of hot water, rediscovering each other like they didn’t just spend the last hours tangled up.

By the time the water starts to run cold, they’re both breathless and grinning.

He shuts off the stream, pushes the curtain aside, and steps out first, grabbing a towel and running it once over his hair. Then he offers her one, but she barely has time to lift it before he steps behind her and drags his own towel across her back, slow and warm, then lower, tracing the curve of her hips and down over her butt with a tenderness that makes her shiver.

They hang the towels on the rack, still damp and flushed, still humming with shared heat.

He holds out his hand.

She takes it without hesitation.

Two steps, three steps, and the distance between bathroom tile and bedroom carpet disappears.

They fall into bed still warm from the shower, still tasting of beer and Chinese food and laughter, still hungry, still wanting—the night not ending, just deepening.

The Morning After

They wake too early—far too early for how late they finally stopped touching each other.

He stirs first.

She’s wrapped around him in that unconscious, post-pleasure sprawl—her leg draped over his, her arm tucked across his stomach, her cheek resting against his shoulder. He tries to ease out from under her without waking her, but the moment he shifts, she makes a soft sound and blinks up at him.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

She nods, eyes fluttering closed again after she watches him disappear down the hall.

By the time he returns, she’s awake enough to go herself, shuffling past him with sleep-mussed hair and the kind of loose, bare languid body that only comes after a night like theirs.

When she returns, neither of them has the energy to pretend they’re awake.
They find each other automatically, drifting together like magnets—
her back to his chest, his arm sliding around her waist, her fingers threading with his.

A sleepy kiss at the base of her neck.
A soft sigh in response.
Warm skin against warm skin.

Touchy.
Feely.
Not intentional, not planned—just two bodies remembering the way they fit.

They drift back to sleep.

The Real Wake-Up — Round Three, Dark-Gray

Sunlight brightens the room when they surface again.
This time they’re more awake… and more aware.

He’s spooned behind her, leg hooked around hers, breath warm against her shoulder.
And she feels him—the quiet, morning want pressing against her in a way that makes her smile into the pillow.

She shifts back against him, teasing, just enough to make his breath hitch.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “So that’s how it’s gonna be…”

She laughs softly. “Maybe.”

There’s no rush this time.
No frenzy.
Just a slow, familiar heat blooming between them.

Her hand reaches back, finding his hip, anchoring herself to him as she rolls forward, easing onto her stomach. He moves with her, settling over her in a way that feels instinctive now. Their bodies line up in an intimate, practiced glide, like they’ve done this a dozen times before—even though it’s only their second morning.

His hands slide up her arms, gathering her wrists gently and guiding them forward, above her head, where he can hold them with a soft, firm grip. Not controlling—just connecting.
A shared edge of their mutual kink.
A silent: I’ve got you.

She exhales into the pillow, the position shifting the angle of their bodies just right.
Her hips tilt.
He follows.
And everything aligns with a deep, slow inevitability.

The rhythm they find together is unhurried, intimate, deliberate.
A morning kind of surrender.
A low, warm pulse that builds between them until it’s all breath and closeness and whispered yes.

When they both crest and come down, his body relaxes over hers, his breath shaking out against her spine. He loosens his hands, giving her space—but she catches his wrists before he can withdraw, pulling his arms beneath her.

She tucks them under her body and holds them there, hugging his forearms tight to her ribs, anchoring him to her.

“Not letting you go yet,” she murmurs into the sheets.

He presses a soft kiss to her shoulder, settling his weight carefully along her back.
They breathe together, warm and connected, her body still humming from everything he’s given her—last night, and now.

Only when she loosens her hold does he lift himself off her, brushing hair from her cheek as she rolls onto her back.

“Shower?” she asks, voice still thick from sleep and pleasure.

“Oh yeah,” he says, grinning. “Definitely.”

Shower — Soft, Teasing, Satisfied

The water warms around them as they step in, bodies touching in that easy, post-release way.
They kiss a little.
Tease a little.
Hands glide along familiar paths, slow and affectionate.

But they’re both too satisfied to push anything further.

It’s just warmth.
Skin.
The afterglow of a night—and morning—that took them exactly where they both needed to go.

When they step out of the shower, they’re smiling like idiots.

And neither one of them minds.

Getting-Dressed Goodbye — Soft Heat

They dress slowly, half-distracted by each other.
Her slipping into her jeans, him watching from the bed.
Him tugging on clean boxers, her eyes lingering a little too long.
A shared grin when their gazes catch.

He ties his shoes while she scrunches her hair with her fingers.
She finds her overshirt.
He steals one last kiss—slow, warm, unhurried—the kind that tastes like morning light and memory.

At the door, he tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Drive safe,” he says, soft.

“I will,” she answers, matching the softness without trying.

Neither of them says when will I see you again
because the answer is already obvious.

Soon.

Saturday Afternoon Texts — Familiar Heat

Around three, her phone buzzes.

Him: Still alive over there?

Her: Barely. I can’t move my legs.
Her: Pretty sure that’s your fault.

Him: Proud of that, actually.

She laughs out loud at the laundry basket in her hallway.

Her: How’s your day?

Him: Slow. Tired.
Him: …Kind of smug if I’m honest.

Her: Smug, huh?

Him: Yeah.
Him: Hard not to be after last night.

She rolls her eyes, smiling.

Her: Someone’s confident.

Him: Someone’s right.

A beat.

Her: We were good last night.

Him: Yeah.
Him: And this morning.
Him: And the shower.

Her pulse picks up again—warm, not frantic; a hum, not a spike.

Her: Let’s not forget that.
Her: Highlight of my day so far.

Him: So far?

Her: Well… the day’s not over.

He just laughs at the screen shaking his head.

Planning the Midweek Meetup — The Natural Pull

Him: Listen.
Him: I don’t want to wait a whole week.
Him: I’ll go crazy again.

Her: You’re already crazy.
Her: But yes, agreed.

He sends a thinking emoji.
Then:

Him: What does your Wednesday look like?
Him: Not an overnight. Just…
Him: Dinner.
Him: Quick shower.
Him: …Quick everything.
Him: Just to survive until next weekend.

She laughs into the empty room.

Her: I get off work at 5 on Wednesday.
Her: Home by 5:30.
Her: You?

Him: Same. Home by 6.
Him: I could be at your place by 6:15.

Her: You don’t think that’s rushing?

Him: Oh, it absolutely is.
Him: That’s the point.

A warm flush climbs her neck.

Her: Bring food.
Her: Something fast.

Him: Fast food, fast shower, fast hands?
Him: That’s the plan, right?

Her: Exactly.

He sends a single line that makes her thighs tighten:

Him: I can’t wait to get my hands on you again.

She bites back a sound and types:

Her: I won’t make it all the way to Friday either.
Her: Wednesday it is.

Him: Good.
Him: And just so you know…
Him: It won’t be that quick.

She sends a smirking emoji.

Her: We’ll see.

Him: Oh, we will.

And that’s how Wednesday becomes inevitable—not out of desperation,
not out of anxiety, but out of two people whose bodies already understand each other
and don’t want to wait a full week to remember it.

Wednesday Night — The Held-Over Hunger

Wednesday comes fast.

He arrives at her place at 6:15 on the dot, holding takeout in one hand and that look in his eyes—the one that says I’ve been thinking about you all day.

She opens the door wearing a soft, thin T-shirt and shorts, hair still damp from her own shower. The moment he steps inside, the door barely clicks shut before his hands are on her waist.

They kiss like they’re picking up a dropped thread—
Urgent, eager, practiced, a familiar rhythm they both know how to fall into.

“Hungry?” he asks, voice low.

“Not for food,” she answers, already tugging him toward the bedroom.

Their clothes come off in a trail. The sex is warm, fast, intimate, exactly what they promised it would be. A release. A reminder. A way to bridge the days between weekends.

They shower together afterward, playful and soft,
and he leaves by eight-thirty,
kissing her goodnight in the doorway with his hand still warm on her hip.

They text later,

it’s comfortable now—
less edge,
less ache,
more you good?
and that was nice.

And it is.

Nice.
Warm.
Satisfying.

But the heat that once pulsed under every message doesn’t hit quite as sharp.

They fall into a rhythm without meaning to.

Wednesday nights
and weekend nights
and the occasional lazy Sunday morning.

Takeout containers.
Shared showers.
Movie half-watched because their hands wander.
The same jokes.
The same positions.
The same playful teasing.

It’s good.
It’s pleasurable.
It’s consistent.

But it’s also beginning to feel… predictable.

Not boring—never boring—God no.
Just familiar, in the way a habit becomes familiar.

Their bodies still respond to each other, but the spark that used to hit like a match to dry tinder is now more like a warm candle flame. Present. Steady. Pleasant. But not wild.

One night she notices she didn’t rush through her day thinking about him.
Another night he realizes he didn’t check his phone to see if she texted.

It’s subtle.
Quiet.
Barely noticeable at first.

But it’s there.

The Slow Cool-Down — Mutual Realization

They start to sense the shift around the same time.

He notices the way she relaxes after sex instead of curling into him with that intoxicating hunger she had at the beginning.
She notices the way his hands linger less on her waist out of want and more out of habit.

They still laugh.
Still kiss.
Still enjoy each other.

But the connection doesn’t deepen.
It doesn’t grow roots.
It doesn’t bloom into anything new.

They care about each other—genuinely, warmly—but their hearts don’t reach for more.

One night, when they’re finishing Chinese takeout (again), she looks at him and feels it fully for the first time:

This is lovely, but it’s not lasting.

And on the same night, as he tosses the empty containers away, he has the same thought:

This was exactly what I needed.
And it’s starting to be exactly what I don’t.

Not in a sad way.
Not in a disappointed way.

Just truthfully.

Two adults who found each other at the right time,
in the right season,
for the right kind of pleasure—and who now know, without saying it yet, that the season is turning.

Late Night — The Argument With Herself

She lies in bed alone, the room dim except for the soft glow of her phone on the pillow beside her. She hasn’t opened the app. She keeps telling herself she won’t.
Not yet.
Not tonight.

But the thought won’t leave her alone.

It creeps in around the edges of her mind—quiet, tempting, a spark trying to reignite itself.

You could get the spark back.
A new profile.
A new match.
A new pair of hands, a new mouth, a new way of wanting.

Her stomach tightens at the thought.
Not guilt—desire.

Then the guilt comes second.

“God,” she mutters into the dark. “What am I even thinking?”

She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling.

Is it cheating?
Is it wrong?

Technically, she could argue no.
They’re not exclusive.
They never said they were building a future.
They both know this relationship is mostly about sex—really good sex, but still.

But still.

Her chest pulls tight. She likes him.
She really, really likes him.
He’s kind. He’s attentive. He’s respectful.
He’s been good for her in ways that surprised her.

So what exactly would she be doing to him?
Taking something away?
Breaking something unspoken?
Violating a rule they never declared?

Or is she only wrestling with old programming—
the voice that says one-at-a-time,
only one-at-a-time,
that this is how good people behave,
that wanting more than one man is the same thing as betrayal?

She closes her eyes.

Two men in her life…
The idea sends a little thrill through her.
There’s a heat to it—a fantasy she’s never let herself hold for long.

Two different energies.
Two different bodies.
Two different ways of being desired.

She breathes out slowly, the thought warm and dangerous.

And yet…

The moment she pictures his face,
his sleepy grin,
his hands on her waist in the morning—the thought collapses.

She couldn’t do it.
Not to him.
Not while she’s still with him, still enjoying him, still caring about him.

She pulls the blanket up to her chin, annoyed at herself, annoyed at the old rules that won’t leave her alone, annoyed at the ethics she doesn’t entirely agree with but can’t quite step past.

“Is it cheating?” she whispers to the ceiling.

No answer comes.
Just her own pulse in her throat.

In the end, she turns her phone facedown, pushes it to the far edge of the nightstand.

Not tonight.

Not while she’s still with him.

Not while her care for him outweighs her curiosity.

Maybe someday she’ll explore the part of herself that thrills at the idea of more than one.
Maybe someday she’ll stop assuming monogamy is the only option.

But for now?

She chooses him.
She chooses honesty—not because she’s sure it’s right, but because she’s sure she’s not ready for anything else.

She turns onto her side and closes her eyes.

The last thought she has before sleep takes her:

If I’m ever going to have two men, it can’t be like this.
Not like cheating.
It has to be something else.
Something honest.
Something allowed.

And then she drifts off—
still wanting,
still curious,
still questioning.

The Wednesday Conversation — Warm, Teasing, and Honest

They’re lying in her bed after their midweek meet-up, sheets twisted around their legs, her hair still drying in faint waves from their shared shower. He’s on his side, propped up on one elbow, tracing lazy lines along her hipbone. She’s sprawled on her back, one foot nudging his shin.

It’s quiet in the room.
Warm.
Not tense—just… thoughtful.

He breaks the silence first, voice soft but amused.
“You know, we’re getting almost too good at this.”

She snorts. “Too good? That’s not possible.”

“No, I mean—” he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck “—I think we might be getting… practiced.”

She tilts her head to look at him. “Practiced? Is that bad?”

“No.” He smiles. “Practiced is very, very fun.”

“But…” she prompts, because she can hear it. There’s a but tucked in his throat.

He runs a hand over his face. “But I don’t feel nervous anymore.”

She bursts out laughing. “Oh god, that. Same.”

“Right?” he says, relieved. “Like—I used to get butterflies driving over here. Now I’m like, ‘Don’t forget to grab napkins for the takeout.’”

She groans into her pillow. “Shut up. I literally did the same thing tonight. I thought, ‘I should shave,’ and then I thought, ‘He won’t care.’”

He grins. “You’re right. I didn’t.”

They laugh together, but there’s a softness under it.

A truth in the space between their voices.

He nudges her knee with his. “Hey. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you…” He falters, then tries again. “Do you feel like we’re… flattening out a little?”

She’s quiet for a moment, staring up at the ceiling.
Then she exhales slowly.
“Yeah. I do.”

He shifts closer, his hand finding her waist. Not possessive—just affectionate.
“You know I care about you, right?”

She nods. “I care about you too.”

He hesitates, brushing a thumb over her ribs. “Just… it’s been months, and I like you just as much as I did at the beginning. But I don’t… feel like it’s changing.”

She lets out a small laugh—relieved, not hurt. “God. That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.”

His eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She rolls onto her side to face him. “I love this. I love us. I love being naked with you—trust me, I really do.” She grins. “But emotionally? It’s not growing. And the sex… it’s still great. Still fun. But it doesn’t hit me like it used to.”

He smiles, rueful and warm. “Same. It’s like the spark’s settling.”

“Settling,” she repeats. “Exactly.”

They lie there for a moment, their knees touching, both of them thinking but not stressed.
It’s easy.
Quiet.
Honest.

He reaches out and takes her hand. “So… what do we do? I don’t want to just disappear from your life.”

“You won’t,” she says, squeezing back. “I don’t want that either.”

“But…” he pauses. “I also don’t want to pretend this is going somewhere it’s not.”

She nods. “Yeah. We’re smart enough to not fool ourselves.”

“Exactly.”

They’re silent again, but it’s not awkward
It’s the opposite—comfortable, like they’ve both stepped onto the same emotional page.

She nudges him with her foot. “So maybe we… ease off a little?”

He smiles. “Yeah. Ease off, but not vanish.”

“And when the spark finally fizzles,” she adds gently, “we’ll know it’s time.”

“Yeah.”

He leans in, brushing a soft kiss against her forehead. “I’m glad you said that. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” she whispers. “You won’t.”

He settles back down beside her, shifting closer until his cheek rests against her chest, his head nestled between her breasts. He wraps an arm around her waist, holding her with the kind of softness that only comes after shared pleasure and shared honesty. She slides both hands into his hair, fingertips gently combing through it, her touch slow and affectionate.

They lie there like that for a long moment—warm, connected, easy.
But beneath the closeness, something new floats quietly in the air.

Not an ending.
Not yet.

Just the gentle acknowledgment that endings exist.
And that when this one comes, it won’t break anything.

They’ll still be this—two people who care for each other,
who hold each other kindly,
who gave each other pleasure and comfort and sweetness
without pretending it was something else.

Their Shift, Not Their Ending

The next few weeks unfold the way autumn does—subtly at first, then undeniably.

Their messages get lighter.
Their Wednesday nights taper into every other Wednesday,
then into “maybe this weekend,”
and neither feels the need to push.

When they do meet, it’s still warm—still kisses, still touch, still familiarity—but the urgency is gone.
The wanting softens into a tenderness that doesn’t need to be acted on.

On a quiet Wednesday night at her place, after a movie and a long, easy conversation that barely brushes the edge of flirting, she looks at him and knows.

“We’re easing off,” she says softly.
Not accusing. Not sad. Just naming the truth.

He smiles, a little relieved, a little grateful.
“Yeah. We are.”

She nudges his knee with hers. “We’re okay, right?”

“God, yeah.” He reaches for her hand without thinking. “We’re good.”

They don’t make love that night.
They don’t need to.

When he leaves, he kisses her cheek—a warm, affectionate press that lands right at the corner of her smile.

“Text me,” she says.

“I will,” he promises.

And she knows he means it.

But when she closes the door and leans back against it, something wakes up inside her.

Not sadness.
Not fear.
Not loss.

Heat.

God, I missed that first-week feeling.
The pulse.
The curiosity.
The wanting that starts in the stomach and drops somewhere much lower.

She showers alone, slips into bed, and the thoughts come easily:

What if I looked again?
Just looked.
A new message.
A new smile.
A new spark.

She rolls onto her side and stares at her phone.

“Am I cheating?”
The thought flickers.

Then she snorts softly into the dark.

On what?
A relationship built on mutual pleasure?
A relationship we both admitted isn’t growing?
A relationship that has eased off into just friends?

She cares about him—truly—but that care doesn’t reach into her future.

And the idea of a new man?
A new body?
A new way someone will want her?

Her whole body answers before her mind can catch up.

Yes.

She taps her phone awake.
The app icon is still there,
ghosted out, waiting.

She re-downloads it.

Her pulse jumps the moment it loads.

There it is—the thrill.
The spark she’s been craving.
The rush that’s been missing.

It wasn’t love she wanted.
Not from him.
Not now.

It was this.
The anticipation.
The unknown.
The hum of new desire just waiting to find her.

She smiles to herself.

Time to see who’s out there.

And she falls asleep with her phone on the pillow beside her,
a little giddy,
a little wicked,
and completely, gloriously alive again.

Soulmates And The Singles App