An Evening in Your Arms

Story about how I spent my day with my lover

You came to me just as the sun was slipping behind the trees, casting gold and amber through the leaves of our little garden. I heard the familiar sound of your footsteps on the stone path — that soft, steady rhythm I’ve grown to love. My heart smiled before my lips did.

I was already waiting in the garden chairs, one slightly turned, saved for you. The air smelled like jasmine and warm soil. The world had gone quiet for us — no rush, no noise, just you and me in the cradle of soft light.

You came up behind me and wrapped your arms around my shoulders. I leaned into your touch like it was the only thing I needed. You whispered, “Coffee, madam?” in that playful voice, and I couldn’t help but blush. You always do that — turn ordinary moments into magic.

We sat together, you holding the cup to my lips like I was precious, sipping from your hands. The coffee was warm, but your presence warmer. No words — just your eyes meeting mine, your thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of my hand.

Then you stood, stretched, and said, “Well then, dinner shall be served by your favorite chef.” I laughed, rolling my eyes. “Madam is honored,” I replied, playing along. You wore a towel over your shoulder like an apron and called me “madam” at least ten more times, each time more dramatic than the last.

Dinner was simple, but beautiful. You made a mess with the sauce, of course — just so you could lean over and wipe some off my lips with your finger, pretending it was an accident. I caught on quickly. “You’re using this as an excuse to touch me,” I teased. “Caught red-handed.”

You didn’t deny it.

When I said you smudged my lipstick, you feigned a guilty look and started feeding me bites straight from your fork — each one followed by a soft “Forgive me, madam?” You made the whole evening feel like a gentle game of affection, where love slipped in between every laugh.

You stood up, and with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you made your way over to the table where the wine waited. Pouring it with a flourish, you turned back toward me and offered the glass with a teasing smile.

“Would you care for a taste, madam?” you asked, your voice playful.
The sun had long set, the sky painted in deep violets and soft navy. Lights twinkled in the garden like little stars grounded just for us. Then you said it — the line that always melts me:
“Hey… madam wants music.”

You took my hand so gently it felt like a promise. You played soft country music from the speaker — not too loud, just enough to sway to. You placed my hand on your shoulder, and yours found my waist. I moved closer without thinking.

We danced — slowly, without steps, just our bodies learning each other’s rhythm. I closed my eyes and felt your breath on my neck, your heartbeat in your chest, your arms like home.

At some point you moved behind me, your arms still around my waist. We didn’t talk. We just stood there, swaying in the moonlight, the music a quiet backdrop to something deeper: peace.