a thousand butterflies / wlw

naomi

thursday, august 12th —
It was well past midnight; close to three, judging by the faint blue glow of the oven clock, but neither of us had any intention of stopping.

Evelyn was perched on the edge of her kitchen counter, breath warm against my mouth, fingers tangled tightly in the collar of my shirt as if she needed to keep me there—as if I'd ever leave again.

My hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer, fitting myself between her legs. The moment our mouths met again—slow at first, then deeper, hungrier—everything else dissolved. Her thighs clenched around my waist, drawing me in until there was nowhere else for either of us to go.

Her lips tasted faintly of wine and something sweet, maybe the strawberries she'd been eating when I showed up at her door unannounced—hair still damp from the shower, stress from the day still clinging to my skin. But the second she'd tugged me inside and kissed me, that stress evaporated into heat, into this.

Evelyn let out a soft, involuntary gasp against my mouth when I pressed closer, and I swallowed it greedily, my fingers sliding up her waist, under the hem of her shirt. Her hands framed my face, pulling me into a deeper kiss, like she wanted to make up for every minute we'd spent apart.

The only sounds were our breathing—ragged, uneven—and the faint hum of the refrigerator.

"Naomi..." she whispered between kisses, her voice low, wrecked in a way that went straight to my spine.

I kissed her again instead of answering—harder this time, like I could pour everything I'd been holding back into her mouth.

Her legs tightened around me.

And God, I let myself drown in it.

Evelyn's mouth trailed to my jaw, then my neck, and for a moment I let myself melt into it—until the reason I'd come in the first place tugged gently at the back of my mind, grounding me.

I pulled back just enough to look at her—her lips flushed, breath uneven, pupils blown wide. God, she was beautiful. Beautiful enough to make me forget everything else.

But I hadn't come here intending to end up pinned between her legs at three in the morning.

Her breath ghosted against my lips as she looked at me, really looked at me, eyes searching mine like she could unravel every knot I walked into her house with.

Her cheeks were flushed, her lipstick slightly smudged, and her hair was slipping out of its clip. She looked soft, undone, like she'd let down every wall she usually kept so perfectly in place.

And there I was, standing between her knees, hands on her hips, feeling the heat of her skin beneath the thin cotton of her shirt, wondering how something that had started as a quiet visit had become this—this gravity, this pull, this inevitable, breathless closeness.

Her thumb traced along my jaw, gentle but grounding.

"What?" she whispered, her voice low, almost nervous.

I shook my head, breath catching as I took her in again. "Nothing," I whispered. "You're just... beautiful."

A small laugh escaped her—soft, disbelieving, almost shy. The kind she only ever gave me. She leaned forward a little, her forehead brushing mine, and I felt her exhale against my mouth, warm and slow.

Outside, the world was quiet. The house was still. The kids long asleep. It felt like we were the only two people awake in the entire universe. And even though I knew how chaotic my week had been, how heavy everything with Benedict was, how drained I'd felt walking up to her door.