what we give in the dark (a short fiction)
the quiet negotiations beneath the sheets
Lovemaking is entrusting the softest part of your body to another person.
She wondered if her eyes were the softest—how she didn’t blink when he tried to lick them. That, she thought, was trust. Or maybe it was her pussy, but desire had never felt soft to her. It was concrete, gushing, impatient. If she had a cock, it would be hard, big, always. Especially for him.
He was all softness. His hands, his arms, his lips—soft in a way that made her want to bite. Even his touch on her leg was soft, but firm. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. That’s what it said. It was exactly this softness that made the sight of his cock so striking—how it hardened with a will of its own, standing at attention like a soldier:
“Hi, ma’am, how have you been?”
They slept under separate blankets. He needed time to fall asleep. She was afraid to wake him. Their body temperatures were wildly different—she was always cold, he ran hot. She had a thick comforter from IKEA that he called an oven. His was thin, barely there. Onion skin, she thought.
***
She liked that they had worked this out. That they didn’t fight about it, not much.
One night, she woke up suddenly. Her heart pounded. Heat rushed through her body. She traced it to her socks—thick, woven, red as flames, sending warmth straight to her chest.
She slipped under the onion blanket. Later, he would tell her her feet had sent heat through him, the way lightning moves, sudden and inescapable.
Neither of them could sleep now.
Frustrated, she escaped to the living room, wrapping herself in the woven blanket, pressing her body into the cool night air.
The TV flickered. Her own reflection stared back at her from the dark screen—wide-eyed, restless. She had work on her mind. She checked her phone. 12:50 AM.
He appeared in the doorway, barefoot on the cold concrete floor.
“I do this all the time. Just three minutes at a time,” he said.
She turned. He was naked. The sight of him in the dark startled her—his pale body glowing faintly, like an alien delivering intelligence.
He pulled her toward the floor, pressing her feet to the cold surface.
“I don’t want to,” she said, drawing her blanket tighter. “My body is different from yours.”
So he went back.
And maybe that was the biggest thing he could give her—his sleep, his attention, his willingness to be awake to offer advice.
A little later, she heard him calling. She thought it was his sleep-talking. Only when he got up to use the bathroom did she realize.
“I was calling you to bed,” he said.
***
Cupcake. That’s what he called her.
Couples and their nicknames. A second name, like a second chance at being known.
She climbed back into bed. She wasn’t ready to sleep, mind still lost in the glow of her phone. He pulled her close anyway.
No matter how distant or independent she tried to be, he was always conscious of her presence.
At night, she had a ritual. She would slip under his onion blanket, squeeze one of his legs between hers, cling to his body like a sloth. She’d shift her hips slightly, testing the waters—did he want her the way she wanted him? If he was too tired or unresponsive, she’d slip away, back under her own blanket.
Sometimes he said nothing. Other times, in a voice laced with regret:
“Already away?”
Tonight, when she got up to pee, he stirred.
“No couch,” he mumbled. Like a child begging.
He didn’t beg often. But when she was reckless, careless with herself, he did. In that quiet, patient way. A soccer mom kind of beg.
She stayed.
And maybe that was the biggest thing she could give him—her time, her stillness, the choice to be in bed when she wanted to be elsewhere.
***
Pumpkin. That was her name for him.
After sex, she laid next to him, exhausted, pressing her face to his skin.
“I want to drink you up. Pumpkin soup.”
She inhaled behind his ear, long and deep. He twitched, irritated, shifting away slightly. But he didn’t let go of her.
A pause. A breath. Their bodies adjusting to the weight of sleep.
She thought about slipping away, back to her blanket, to her own restless mind. But his arm, draped loosely over her waist, felt like a quiet tether.
So she stayed.
Outside, the city hummed, distant and unbothered. But here, in this bed, in this hour, there was nothing left to negotiate.
And with that, their sleepless night came to an end.
Love it! This piece had my full attention.