Under the Eaves

Where consent becomes warmth, and winter learns to wait.

Preface

Some moments don’t ask to be taken inside.
They want to stay where the cold can still see you choosing warmth.

This piece is about adults meeting each other slowly—
outside, unhidden from the world,
yet held.

Content Note: 18+ / NC-17 themed (consent-forward, non-graphic)

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Under the Eaves

The night is thin with snow—
not enough to cover the street,
just enough to make everything honest.

You pull your coat tighter.
I step closer, then stop—
close enough to share breath,
not close enough to take.

“Here?” I ask with my hands still at my sides,
like proof.

You nod once.
Small. Certain.
As if you’ve been practicing that yes
in the quiet of your mouth.

The streetlight turns your lashes gold.
The wind tries to be brave
and fails against the warmth we make.

I slide my glove off first, slow,
so you can see every choice.
My bare hand finds your wrist—
not pulling, just there,
waiting for you to lean in or away.

You lean in.

Your shoulder meets the wall beneath the eaves,
brick cold behind you,
my body an offered heat in front.

I don’t kiss you like a promise.
I kiss you like a question
you already answered.

Your breath catches.
Mine follows it.
Our mouths learn the same rhythm—
take, pause, take again—
as if the snow is listening
and we don’t want to scare it.

My hand goes to your waist
and stays polite.
Still.
Until your fingers curl at my sleeve
and tug—just once—
a private permission.

The world keeps walking past us,
cars and distant laughter,
someone’s keys, a door closing,
life doing what it does.

And still—
there is only this pocket of night,
this lamplight,
this soft urgency.

I press my forehead to yours.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You don’t speak.
You tilt your chin up.
You hold my coat like you mean it.
Your yes is in your whole body—
steady, present,
here.

My mouth finds the place under your ear
where warmth lives.
You shiver, not from cold.
Not anymore.

Snow melts on our collars.
Our breaths tangle.
My hand slides—careful, careful—
from your waist to your hip,
then back again,
like I’m learning the map
without claiming the land.

You whisper my name into my throat
and it sounds like
come closer
without saying come closer.

So I do.

The eaves keep us hidden
like a secret the house forgot to tell.
The streetlight keeps watch
like it’s sworn to say nothing.

Your fingers find my bare knuckles,
trace the line where my glove used to be,
and I think:
this is how adults pray—
with consent,
with restraint,
with hunger held in steady hands.

I kiss you deeper, once,
then pull back
just enough to look.

Your lips are red.
Your eyes are bright.
Your breath is wrecked
in the gentlest way.

“Again?” I ask—quiet, plain.

You answer by opening your mouth to mine,
and the night tips softly
toward us.

Somewhere, a wind chime moves.
Somewhere, a clock keeps its distance.

Here—
under the eaves—
I keep my mouth to your mouth
and my hands where you asked them to be,
and your body warms against mine
until the snow forgets
what it came here to do.

When we finally step out,
the street feels too wide.

You leave one glove on the railing
like a small confession.

I take your hand anyway—
bare skin to bare skin—
and we walk on,
still outside,
still burning,
still careful,
still mine only in the ways
you keep choosing.

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Asuka’s Room

I wanted this to stay outdoors.

Not hidden behind doors, not rushed into privacy—just two adults choosing each other in plain sight, where the world keeps moving and nothing is owed.

Consent here isn’t a line.
It’s a posture.
A listening.

Sometimes intimacy isn’t about what happens next.
It’s about how carefully we stay.

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Little Closing Invitation

If you lingered here, thank you for staying gently.
You’re welcome to leave a quiet trace below—
or simply carry the warmth with you into the cold.

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Some heat is made not by fire, but by how carefully we choose to stand close.