You think it’s hesitation.
But it’s not. It’s memory.
When she suddenly presses her palm against your chest and whispers, “Wait,” it’s not rejection—it’s recalibration. She’s not pulling away; she’s trying to stay present.
Her body remembers things her mind can’t always explain.
There are moments when touch feels too much, too soon, too real. And in that instant, she pauses—not to stop you, but to find herself again.
She stops you because she needs to breathe. Because the line between surrender and disappearance is thinner than you think.
When she looks at you then—eyes wide, breath uneven—it’s not fear you’re seeing. It’s depth.
She’s reminding herself that this is now, not then. That this touch is different. That she’s safe.
You don’t move, and neither does she. The air thickens between you, heavy with unfinished motion. You could fill that silence with questions, but you shouldn’t.
Because when she stops you, she’s not asking you to explain—she’s asking you to understand.
To wait without demanding. To stay without pushing.
And if you do, something shifts.
Her hand, once pushing you away, slides down your chest again—slower this time, deliberate.
She resumes not because you pressed her, but because you didn’t.
That’s what she needed—to know she could pause, and you’d still be there when she was ready.
So when she suddenly stops you halfway, don’t take it as rejection.
Take it as trust.
Because she’s showing you the most vulnerable truth she has: that she wants to go on—but only if it’s real
