After Busting Me Hard She Calmly Replies "You Asked For It..."
- THE BALLBUSTING JOURNAL
- Feb 18
- 20 min read
Updated: Feb 25
The apartment smelled like takeout and disappointment.
Valentine's Day had arrived with the same mundane certainty as every other Tuesday, except tonight the world outside pretended love mattered. Red hearts in store windows. Couples posting filtered photos. The performance of romance, repeated annually because tradition demanded it.
Inside apartment 4B, tradition was about to break.
She was stretched out on the couch, all five-foot-nine of her folded into that impossible way tall women manage—legs tucked beneath her, back against the armrest, phone in hand. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, the kind that shouldn't look good but somehow made her more attractive. No makeup. Oversized sweater that hung off one shoulder. Leggings that highlighted the lean muscle of legs that had spent four years playing college soccer.
He'd fallen for those legs first, if he was honest. Watching her at a mutual friend's backyard barbecue two years ago, keeping a soccer ball in the air with casual precision. Knee up, tap, knee up, tap, the ball floating like it was tethered to her. Twenty consecutive touches without the ball hitting the ground, and she wasn't even trying. Just talking to someone else while her knee drove upward again and again with effortless control.
Something about that movement—the sharp upward drive, the precision, the power coiled in those long legs—had hit him somewhere primal. He'd watched her knee come up and thought about what that kind of force could do to a man if she aimed it differently.
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She'd caught him staring. Smiled. Let the ball drop.
"Want to try?" she'd asked.
At first he kind of lifted one of his knees as a ball protection reaction but then quickly realized she meant with her ball. He then knew he wanted to know everything about the girl-next-door who could probably destroy him with one well-placed knee and looked like she'd never even considered the possibility.
That was the appeal, really. She was the girl who wore sundresses to farmer's markets and knew everyone's coffee order and remembered birthdays. Sweet. Thoughtful. The kind of woman your mother would love.
But underneath that—literally underneath, in those long, athletic legs—existed power that could drop a man in seconds. And she either didn't know or didn't think about it, which somehow made it hotter.
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The Question
"So... did you think about what I said?"
His voice came out smaller than intended. Three weeks of hints, careful conversations, that one direct request last Sunday that she'd dismissed with a noncommittal hum. Now, Valentine's night, he was asking again.
She didn't look up from her phone.
Two years together. Long enough to stop pretending every moment required full attention. Long enough for silences to mean things. Long enough to know that the curve of her hip visible beneath that oversized sweater could still make his breath catch, even during moments of tension.
This silence meant: I heard you. I'm choosing not to respond.
He tried again. "About... you know. What we talked about."
"I know what you said." Her thumb scrolled. Whatever she was reading held more interest than his question. "I heard you the first three times."
"So—"
"I'm thinking about it."
That should have been encouraging. Thinking about it implied consideration, possible yes, eventual conversation. But her tone carried no encouragement. It carried the same flat affect as pass the salt or we're out of milk.
She set her phone down. Finally looked at him.
Those hazel eyes—the ones that could shift from warm to unreadable in a second—gave nothing away. He'd seen her use that same neutral expression when telling off a guy at a bar who wouldn't take no for an answer. Sweet turned to steel in an instant, and the guy had backed off immediately. Something in her stillness communicated danger without a single threatening word.
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"I'm going to do the dishes," she said.
And she stood up, unfolding those long legs with the grace of someone who'd spent years on athletic fields. The leggings hugged every curve—the taut muscle of her thighs, the perfect slope of her rear that made him forget whatever point he'd been trying to make. She walked to the kitchen, and he couldn't help but watch the way she moved. Confident. Controlled. Like she knew exactly what her body could do and didn't need to prove it.
She turned on the faucet.
He sat on the couch, listening to water run, plates clink, the small domestic sounds of a Tuesday night that happened to be Valentine's Day.
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
The Wait
Ten minutes of dishes.
She washed each plate methodically. Rinsed. Placed in the drying rack. Moved to the next. No rush. No indication she remembered a conversation had just occurred.
He stayed on the couch.
Should he help? Should he ask again? Should he pretend everything was normal and turn on the TV?
The not-knowing was worse than a no.
A no would have been clean. Disappointing but conclusive. This—this calculated non-response—left him suspended in uncertainty.
She finished the dishes. Dried her hands on a towel, then folded it with those long, elegant fingers. Everything she did had that quality—precise, controlled, no wasted movement. Soccer had taught her that. Ten years of the sport had built not just the obvious leg strength but the spatial awareness, the ability to calculate angles and force in split seconds.
He'd watched her play in a recreational league once. A guy on the opposing team had gotten too aggressive, knocked into her deliberately. She'd turned, looked at him with that same neutral expression she was wearing now, and said something too quiet for anyone else to hear but he thought somewhere in there she mentioned his genitalia. The guy had paled and backed off for the rest of the game.
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He'd asked her later what she'd said.
"I told him if he did it again, I'd make sure he couldn't have kids," she'd answered, smiling sweetly. "He believed me."
The terrifying part was how easily she'd said it. Like commenting on the weather.
She walked past the couch, past him, into the bedroom. The glimpse of her from behind—slender waist, the curve of her hips, those impossibly long legs—would've been enough to make him forget his own name under different circumstances.
He heard the closet door open. Hangers sliding. Drawers.
What was she doing?
The not-seeing made it worse. His imagination filled the gaps. Was she getting something? Preparing something? Or just... changing clothes, completely unrelated to his question, moving through her evening as though he'd never asked at all?
Five minutes passed.
She emerged wearing different clothes. Not lingerie. Not anything special. Just different: gray sweatpants that sat low on her hips, a fitted t-shirt that showed off her athletic build—the lean muscle of her shoulders and arms, the flat stomach of someone who'd never stopped working out even after college sports ended. Still the girl next door, but the kind who could outrun you, outplay you, and definitely out-kick you.
Comfortable clothes. The kind she wore on lazy weekends. But there was something about the way she moved in them—that same controlled athleticism—that reminded him she was dangerous whether she was dressed up or dressed down.
She walked back to the kitchen without looking at him.
Opened the fridge. Stood there, examining contents like this was a critical decision. Grabbed a yogurt. Peeled the top. Got a spoon.
Ate it standing at the counter.
Still hadn't said a word.
The Valentine's Day card he'd left on the counter that morning remained unopened. She'd walked past it a dozen times. Hadn't touched it.
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He wondered if this was punishment. If her silence was the answer: No, and you're annoying me by asking.
But something in her energy felt different. Not angry. Not dismissive.
Focused.
She was doing normal things with unusual precision. Every movement deliberate. Every action complete before moving to the next.
Like she was waiting for something.
Or making him wait.
The Shift
She finished the yogurt. Rinsed the container. Placed it in recycling. Washed the spoon.
Then she turned around and looked at him.
Really looked. Not through him. Not past him. At him.
"Come here," she said.
Not a request. A statement.
He stood. Walked to the kitchen. The space suddenly felt smaller than usual. Counter behind her. Table to his left. Nowhere to go but directly in front of her.
She leaned back against the counter. Arms crossed. The position pushed her chest forward slightly, and the fitted t-shirt left nothing to imagination about her figure—slender, toned, the body of someone who'd spent years conditioning. Her legs, even relaxed, showed the definition of serious athletic training. Quadriceps that could generate serious force. Calves that spoke to thousands of hours of running, jumping, striking.
He'd seen her kick a soccer ball once hard enough to dent a garage door. She'd laughed about it, apologized to the neighbor, offered to pay for repairs. Sweet as always. But the power in that kick had been undeniable. The ball had moved so fast it was barely visible.
That same leg strength was standing three feet in front of him now.
She studied him with those hazel eyes that had made him fall for her two years ago.
Girl-next-door pretty, not intimidatingly beautiful. The kind of face you'd see at a coffee shop and think about for days. Cute smile. Dimples when she really laughed. The exact kind of woman who should be non-threatening.
Except she was. Threatening. In the most subtle, unacknowledged way possible.
"You've been asking me for three weeks," she said.
"I know. I'm sorry if—"
"I'm not done talking."
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"Three weeks of hints. Then a direct request. Then more hints. Tonight, asking again."
She tilted her head slightly. "You really want this."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," he said anyway.
"And you understand what you're asking for."
"Yes."
"You've thought about it. You're sure."
"Yes."
She nodded slowly. Uncrossed her arms.
"Okay," she said.
Just: Okay.
His heart rate spiked. Okay meant yes. Okay meant she was agreeing. Okay meant—
"Not right now though," she continued. "I have things to do."
The relief crashed into confusion.
"Things to do?"
"Laundry," she said. "Need to fold the stuff in the dryer. And I was going to reorganize the bathroom cabinet. The shelf is a mess."
She said this with the same tone as discussing weekend errands.
"Oh," he said. "Okay. So... later?"
"Maybe."
She pushed off the counter, walked past him toward the hallway. He caught a hint of her shampoo—something clean and simple, not expensive perfume. Just her. She didn't need anything extra. The athletic grace of her walk, the way her hips moved with that unconscious confidence, the long lines of her legs in those sweatpants—she was devastating without trying.
She stopped at the laundry closet. Opened the dryer. Started pulling out warm clothes.
He stood in the kitchen, processing.
When she bent forward to reach the back of the dryer, the sweatpants stretched across her rear in a way that made his mouth go dry. Two years and that view still hit him the same way. Perfectly curved, firm from years of athletic training. The kind of rear that belonged on someone who'd spent a decade doing squats and lunges and explosive movements.
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The kind of rear that came with legs powerful enough to do real damage if she wanted.
She'd never wanted to. That was the thing. She was sweet. Kind. The girl who volunteered at animal shelters and sent birthday cards and made him soup when he was sick.
But the potential existed. In those legs. In that core strength. In the spatial awareness that came from years of calculating trajectory and force.
She carried the laundry basket to the living room. Sat on the floor. Started folding.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, her long legs folded with that casual flexibility only athletes possessed. The position shouldn't have been attractive—sitting on the floor folding laundry—but everything about her was. The curve of her neck as she looked down. The way her hair fell forward when she leaned to grab another shirt. The simple domesticity of the moment made her seem safe, approachable, normal.
But he kept watching those legs. Kept thinking about what they could do.
He'd seen her demonstrate a proper soccer kick to a kid at the park once. She'd explained the technique—plant foot here, striking foot here, knee drives through the ball, follow through. Then she'd demonstrated. Her knee had come up fast and sharp, the full extension of her leg generating force that sent the ball sailing thirty yards.
"The power comes from your hips and quads," she'd explained to the kid, smiling that sweet smile. "You're basically trying to drive your knee through the target."
Drive your knee through the target.
He'd thought about that phrase more times than he could count.
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T-shirt. Smooth the fabric. Fold in the sleeves. Fold in half. Set aside.
Next item.
The movements were hypnotic. Methodical. Calm.
She wasn't looking at him.
Minutes passed. Five. Ten.
He didn't know what to do. Ask again? Stay quiet? Help fold?
The not-knowing was the worst part.
The Game
"Hand me that pillowcase," she said.
He grabbed it from the basket, handed it over.
Their fingers didn't touch. She took it without acknowledgment. Those slender fingers that could palm a soccer ball, that had the grip strength to hold her entire body weight during pull-ups at the gym, that looked delicate but absolutely weren't.
Folded it. Set it aside.
"The other one too."
He handed her the second pillowcase.
This time she looked up at him. Brief. Those hazel eyes catching the light. A tiny beauty mark near her left eyebrow that he'd traced with his finger a thousand times. She had the kind of face that got prettier the longer you knew her—features that seemed merely cute at first glance but became beautiful with familiarity.
"Thanks," she said.
Then back to folding.
The casual domesticity felt surreal. Like they weren't having a conversation about his request. Like this was any other night.
Except it wasn't.
The tension in the room was tangible. Unspoken. She was doing normal things, but the energy underneath was different.
She knew he was waiting. She knew he was uncertain.
And she was in no rush.
She finished the laundry. Stood up with that easy grace—no hands, just core strength pulling her vertical in one smooth motion. The athlete in her showing through even in mundane moments. She carried the basket to the bedroom, and he watched her walk away. The sweatpants hugged her hips, her rear, those long legs that could probably crush a watermelon if she wanted.
He heard dresser drawers open and close.
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She emerged from the bedroom. Walked to the kitchen. Every step was fluid, controlled. The girl moved like water—smooth and unstoppable. Poured herself a glass of water.
Drank it slowly. He watched her throat work as she swallowed. Watched the way she held the glass with casual confidence.
She'd told him once, laughing over drinks with friends, about a guy in college who'd groped her at a party. She'd kneed him. Hard. "Dropped him like a sack of potatoes," she'd said, giggling. "His friends had to carry him out."
She'd said it like it was a funny story. Like she hadn't potentially ended that guy's ability to have children. Sweet, laughing, girl-next-door cute, describing permanent damage with a smile.
That was when he'd known for certain: she could ruin him if she wanted to. And the fact that she had no interest in doing so—that she was sweet and kind and thoughtful despite possessing that capability—somehow made it more intense.
Set the glass in the sink.
Turned around.
Looked at him again. The light from the kitchen caught her face at an angle that highlighted her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw. She'd never think of herself as beautiful—she was too girl-next-door for that kind of self-awareness—but she was. Beautiful in that accessible, real way that made her more dangerous than any intimidating supermodel could be.
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Because she was the kind of girl you'd introduce to your parents. The kind who brought homemade cookies to new neighbors. The kind who seemed safe.
And those were exactly the kind of legs that could do the most damage—the ones you never saw coming.
"You're still waiting," she said.
Not a question. An observation.
"I... yeah."
She nodded. Almost smiled. Not quite.
"Good," she said.
She walked to the hallway closet. Started rearranging shoes. Bent down, and once again those sweatpants outlined every curve. He could see the muscle definition in her calves, her thighs. The body of someone who'd run miles every week for over a decade.
The body of someone who could generate serious force with very little effort.
She'd played in an indoor league last winter. He'd watched her defend against a guy six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier. She'd gotten the ball away from him three times using nothing but footwork and positioning. Speed and precision over brute strength. That's how she operated.
The guy had gotten frustrated, tried to push past her. She'd held her ground, planted her feet, and when he'd leaned into her she'd shifted her weight and he'd gone sprawling.
Afterward, buying her a beer, he'd asked how she'd done it.
"Leverage," she'd said, shrugging. "And knowing where someone's center of gravity is. You don't need to be stronger if you're smarter about angles."
Angles.
She understood exactly where to apply force for maximum effect. It was literally what she'd trained to do for years—calculate trajectory, power, precision. Hit the target where it would hurt most.
This was deliberate. This was a game.
And she was winning.
The Strike
She finished with the shoes. Closed the closet door. Stood up and stretched—arms over her head, back arching slightly. The t-shirt rode up, exposing a strip of flat stomach, the hint of obliques. Even her stretching looked athletic. Controlled. Powerful.
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Walked back toward the living room.
He watched her approach. Those long legs eating up the distance. His heart rate elevated. Was this it? Was she—
She walked past him. Sat on the couch. Picked up her phone. Those legs folded beneath her again, all that coiled power suddenly looking deceptively relaxed.
Started scrolling.
The anticlimax was its own form of torture.
She kept scrolling. Didn't look up. One leg was tucked beneath her, the other extended slightly. Even sitting casually she looked like an athlete—the kind of relaxed readiness that came from muscle memory and years of training.
Then, without looking up: "Come stand over here."
He stood. Walked to where she'd indicated. In front of the couch. In front of those legs that had occupied his thoughts since that backyard barbecue two years ago.
She kept scrolling. Didn't look up.
"Closer," she said.
He stepped closer.
Now he was standing directly in front of her, and she was still looking at her phone. Close enough to see the way her eyelashes cast tiny shadows on her cheeks. Close enough to smell that simple shampoo she always used. Close enough to be in range of those legs if she decided to—
She set the phone down.
Looked up at him. And suddenly he was reminded of exactly why he'd fallen for her. That face—cute, approachable, the girl next door. But those eyes held something else now. Not anger. Not cruelty. Just... awareness. Like she'd just remembered something important.
The same look she used to get right before a penalty kick. Focused. Calculating. Certain.
"You asked for this," she said.
And her knee came up.
Fast. Precise. No warning. The same sharp upward drive he'd watched a thousand times at soccer practices and games, except this time the target wasn't a ball.
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Her knee—all that concentrated force from those long, athletic legs—drove straight up into his groin with the kind of precision that came from years of training. She'd calculated the angle perfectly. Hip flexors engaging. Quadriceps firing. Core rotating to generate maximum power.
It was beautiful, in a terrible way. The same movement that had made him fall for her two years ago, now making him fall in a completely different sense.
The impact was immediate and absolute.
His balls compressed against the sudden force of her knee. The pain exploded—not metaphorically, actually—radiating from the point of contact up through his abdomen into his stomach into his chest into his brain.
The world collapsed into that single point of agony.
He gasped. Bent forward. Hands instinctively moved to cup the damage but the pain was already everywhere, cascading through his nervous system with the efficiency of well-designed cruelty.
His knees weakened.
He doubled over, mouth open, no sound coming out for a long second because his diaphragm had seized along with everything else.
Then the sound came: half-groan, half-wheeze, the involuntary vocalization of a body processing catastrophic input.
"You asked for it," she repeated.
Her tone hadn't changed. Same flat affect as we're out of milk.
He was bent in half, gasping, vision blurred at the edges, abdominal muscles clenched against the nausea rising from somewhere deep in his gut.
And she—
She picked up her phone. Those long fingers wrapped around it. Those hazel eyes dropped back to the screen. That beautiful, girl-next-door face showing the same level of concern as if she'd swatted a mosquito.
Started scrolling again.
Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn't just used those powerful legs—the ones that had made him fall for her in the first place—to drop him where he stood.
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The Aftermath
He stayed bent over, hands on his knees, breathing through the pain.
The initial sharp agony was subsiding into the deeper, sicker ache that always followed.
The kind that settled into your stomach and made you want to lie down and not move for an hour.
She was looking at her phone.
Actually scrolling. Reading something. Completely absorbed in whatever was on the screen.
He straightened up slightly. Still hunched. Still hurting. But vertical enough to see her face.
She wasn't smiling. Wasn't frowning. Just... neutral. Reading her phone like he wasn't standing three feet away, still processing the fact that she'd just kneed him in the balls with enough force to make his vision gray out.
"You..." he started. His voice came out rough. "You just—"
"I did," she said, not looking up. "You asked me to. Multiple times."
"I know, but—"
"But what?" Now she looked up. "You wanted me to think about it. I thought about it. You wanted an answer. I gave you one."
She said this with the same energy as explaining why she'd bought the wrong brand of coffee.
The casualness of it was somehow worse than the pain.
She'd hit him—hard, precisely, with all that soccer-trained leg strength—and then immediately returned to her phone like it required as much effort as swatting a fly. Less effort, maybe.
He was still bent over, still gasping slightly, and she'd already moved on. Those powerful legs were relaxed now, folded casually beneath her. All that destructive capability hidden again under girl-next-door sweetness.
"That's..." He didn't know how to finish the sentence.
She set her phone down. Looked at him with something that might have been curiosity.
Her head tilted slightly, and somehow even that gesture was attractive. The way her ponytail shifted. The angle of her neck.
"That's what?" she prompted.
"Nothing. I just... I didn't expect..."
"What? For me to actually do it?" She tilted her head. "You've been asking for three weeks. What did you think was going to happen?"
She said this while looking absolutely adorable. Not intimidating. Not scary. Just her—pretty, approachable, the kind of girl who'd help you move furniture or water your plants.
Except now he knew what those legs could do. Had felt it. And watching her sit there looking so innocent while possessing that kind of power was doing something to his brain.
He didn't have an answer.
She stood up—that easy, athletic grace—and stepped around him. Those long legs carried her to the kitchen with the same fluid movement that had captivated him two years ago.
Opened the fridge again. Grabbed another yogurt.
Peeled the top. Got a spoon. Ate it standing at the counter.
While he stood in the living room, still doubled over, still processing.
The pain was fading now. Manageable. The sharp edge gone, leaving only the dull throb and the lingering nausea.
But the psychological impact was just settling in.
She'd done it. With minimal effort. Barely a thought. Knee up, contact, done. Then back to normal life like it was nothing.
Like he was nothing.
The power dynamic had shifted so completely that he felt the weight of it in the room.
She finished the yogurt. Rinsed the container. Placed it in recycling.
Then she walked back to the living room. Sat down on the couch. Picked up her phone.
"You should probably sit down," she said, not looking at him. Those hazel eyes stayed fixed on her screen. "You look like you're going to fall over."
The girl who brought you soup when you were sick, now casually noting you might collapse after she'd kneed you in the balls.
Even her voice was the same. Sweet. Thoughtful. Caring. The girl who brought you soup when you were sick, now casually noting you might collapse after she'd kneed you in the balls.
He sat. Carefully. Watched her scroll.
Her legs were tucked beneath her again, all that power hidden. The sweatpants hugged her hips, outlined the curve of her rear. She looked comfortable. Relaxed. Like she hadn't just demonstrated exactly how dangerous she was.
She scrolled for another minute.
Then, casually: "Valentine's Day and everything. Figured I should give you something."
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She said this with the same tone as I got you socks for Christmas. That sweet, girl-next-door voice delivering the most loaded statement possible.
He stared at her. Really looked at her. The profile of her face—cute nose, soft jawline, those lips that could shift from sweet smile to devastating indifference. The way her t-shirt stretched across her shoulders, hinting at the lean muscle beneath. The fact that she was simultaneously the most attractive and most terrifying woman he'd ever met.
She glanced over. Almost smiled. Not quite. Just that hint of dimple.
"You're welcome," she said.
And went back to her phone. Those long fingers scrolling. Those powerful legs hidden. That beautiful, dangerous girl acting like nothing had happened.
The Silence
They sat in silence for ten minutes.
She scrolled. He recovered.
The TV stayed off. No music. Just the ambient sound of the apartment and the occasional notification from her phone.
Finally, he found his voice.
"Are you... are you going to do it again?"
She looked over. Considered the question. The light caught her face at that angle again—the one that made her look like she should be in a catalog for wholesome lifestyle brands. Cute. Harmless. Exactly the kind of girl you'd trust.
"Maybe," she said. "Haven't decided yet."
Those long fingers played with a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail. Such a casual, feminine gesture. Something she'd done a thousand times. Somehow it felt different now, knowing what else those hands could hold onto while those legs did their work.
The uncertainty was back. Immediate. Visceral. Worse than before.
"When?"
"Don't know." She shrugged, and the movement did things to her silhouette that he really shouldn't be noticing right now. "Could be tonight. Could be tomorrow. Could be next week."
She said this like discussing whether to order pizza or Chinese food. That girl-next-door voice, those pretty features, delivering a threat so casual it barely registered as one.
"I won't know when it's coming?"
"No," she said. "You won't."
She set her phone down. Turned to face him directly. Unfolded those long legs, stretched them out. The movement was unconscious, natural. The flex of muscle in her thighs, her calves. The casual display of the weapon she'd just used on him.
She was wearing the same sweet expression. Same approachable face. But now he saw something else underneath. Not cruelty. Just... knowledge. Awareness of her own capability.
"You asked for this," she said. "Multiple times. You wanted me to do it. So I did. But here's the thing—"
She leaned forward slightly. The t-shirt shifted. The ponytail swung forward. She looked like she was about to share a secret.
"Now I know I can."
The words hung in the air.
"I know how easy it is. I know you can't stop me. I know that all I have to do is—" she made a small upward gesture with her knee—not enough to actually hit him but enough to make him flinch, enough to show that perfect muscle control, "—and you're done. Bent over. Gasping. Helpless."
She leaned back. Folded those legs again beneath her. Back to looking sweet and safe.
"That's interesting information to have."
His mouth went dry.
She was right. She'd discovered something tonight. Not just that she could do it—but how effortless it was. How much power existed in those long, athletic legs. In that body that looked so innocent but absolutely wasn't.
And now that she knew...
"So yeah," she continued, tucking that escaped strand of hair behind her ear. "Maybe I'll do it again. Maybe I won't. But the thing is—you'll never know when. Could be walking past you in the hallway. Could be while you're doing dishes. Could be any time, really."
She picked up her phone again. Those slender fingers wrapped around it. Those hazel eyes dropped back to the screen. That beautiful, girl-next-door face completely at ease.
"Something to think about," she said.
And started scrolling.
He sat there, still feeling the residual ache, now overlaid with new anxiety. And underneath that—something else. Attraction. Fear. The collision of watching someone so beautiful reveal they were so dangerous.
She'd said okay.
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She'd followed through with those powerful legs.
And now he lived in a world where at any moment, without warning, she could—and might—do it again. Those legs he'd admired were now a permanent threat. That beautiful girl next door was now something more complex.
The anticipation had shifted from will she ever to when will she next.
And she knew he was thinking about it.
The small smile that played at the corner of her mouth—those soft lips curving just slightly—confirmed it.
She was enjoying this. Not the act itself, necessarily. But the power. The control. The knowledge that he would spend every moment wondering.
Valentine's Day.
A holiday about love.
He'd asked for something. She'd given it to him.
And now he understood: the real gift wasn't the knee to the balls.
It was the permanent uncertainty that followed.
She stood up. Stretched. Yawned.
"I'm going to bed," she announced. "You coming?"
It wasn't really a question.
He stood—carefully—and followed her to the bedroom.
The Valentine's Day card on the counter remained unopened.
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