Entirely naked except for a blindfold, he slept. I closed the front door silently behind me and slipped out of my shoes. The soft carpet conspired to keep my approach silent. The light from the dining room faded as I tiptoed down the hall, so just the barest hint remained in the bedroom.

Enough lingered so I could see the shape of his pale arm on top of the dark blanket. His vulnerability was intoxicating. I traced my fingers down his shoulder and upper arm, hardened muscle even in the looseness of sleep. Hungry for him, aching to spur him into command-following action, I wrapped my fingers around the back of his arm and squeezed.

So fast I didn’t see it coming, his other arm shot out and he seized me. With a fluid, practiced motion, he locked his hand around my thumb, twisting down and away, so my body was forced to follow. I had guessed this might happen so I didn’t cry out or try to pull away. There wasn’t any pain anyway, he had stopped just short of that. He was coiled but calm.

Silent, frozen, I waited with a smile he couldn’t see melting across my lips. After a single breath, in and out, he said my name. It was a question.

Yes. It’s me. 

He disengaged as soon as he heard my voice and said he was sorry.

Don’t be. It’s… inspiring.

I could see his brow scrunch up beneath the blindfold. “What is?” he asked.

To see training so deeply embedded.