Discover with Saee

The last of the waterfall series

They walked back from the waterfall in near silence, side by side, the world hushed around them. The path felt different now—softer somehow, as if the earth itself understood the weight of what had just passed between them.

The night smelled of rain, wildflowers, and the damp earth underfoot. Their hands brushed occasionally, and each time it sent a shiver through them both. Neither reached for the other, but neither pulled away. The space between them, so long filled with unspoken things, now pulsed with the fragile beginnings of something new. Or perhaps something old, rediscovered.

When they reached the guesthouse, she paused at the gate. The moonlight caught her profile—the soft curve of her cheek, the loose strands of hair clinging to her skin. He stopped beside her, waiting.

“Come inside,” she said, so quietly that he almost wasn’t sure he’d heard it.

He followed without a word, heart pounding in a way he hadn’t felt in years—not with urgency, but with a deep, aching tenderness. The path through the garden was soft under their feet, the wet grass brushing their ankles, the night air cool and fragrant with jasmine and rain.

She led him through the quiet house, down the hall that smelled of wood and rain and her. She unlocked the patio door, pushing it open to the familiar warmth of her home. The small sitting room greeted them first — simple and lived-in, with its low wooden table, the worn sofa, the clay lamp that cast a soft glow when she lit it. Beyond, the bedroom door stood open, a breeze fluttering the edge of a white curtain.

They stepped inside together, wordless, as if words might break the fragile, charged peace between them. He paused just inside, drinking it in — the small details he remembered so well: the shelves lined with her books, the shawl draped over the chair, the woven mat by the bed, the faint scent of sandalwood and wildflowers that was hers.

Her room was as he remembered: simple, warm, hers. She lit a single lamp, its glow soft, casting golden shadows on the white walls. The window was open, the night breeze carrying in the scent of jasmine.

She turned to him, her eyes shadowed in the low light, but soft, no longer guarded. For a moment, neither moved. The air between them felt thick with all they hadn’t said, all they’d tried to hold back. They stood there, facing each other in the quiet. No words. Just the sound of their breathing, the beat of their hearts. 

When she reached for him, it was with slow purpose — fingertips grazing his wrist first, then his hand, drawing him to her. His breath hitched, but he let himself be led, let himself fall into the gravity of her.

His hands came up, tentative at first, resting on her waist, feeling the warmth of her through the damp cotton of her dress.

Their first kiss, inside this space that felt like both memory and promise, was restrained — as if they were both afraid of breaking the moment. But it deepened, grew sure, as the dam finally gave way. He framed her face in his hands, his thumb brushing her cheek, his lips finding hers again and again, slow, searching, aching.

They undressed each other with the same care: no hurried pulling, no tearing away—just quiet reverence, as if each button, each fold of fabric, mattered. Damp hair was pushed back, fabric slipped from skin with gentle hands. The cotton of her nightdress pooled at her feet, his shirt fell to the floor. They moved in quiet harmony, as if their bodies remembered what their hearts had not dared hope for.

As if this was something sacred. His hands trembled when they first touched her bare skin, and hers stilled them, lacing their fingers together, grounding him.

When they sank onto her bed, the night air cool through the open window, it wasn’t with urgency but with a tenderness that made every touch feel sacred. His hands explored her slowly, as if memorizing her anew, as if trying to heal the distance of the years. She traced the lines of his back, his shoulders, learning him again by feel.

When they came together at last, it wasn’t frantic or wild. It was slow, tender, restrained—but full of heat beneath the surface, the kind that comes from knowing and waiting and aching. Their bodies moved in rhythm, as if remembering what it was to be one. Every breath, every sigh was quiet, but heavy with meaning.

And when it was over, they didn’t speak. He gathered her close, their bodies still warm, still joined in the hush of the night. She rested her head against him, and he pressed a kiss to her brow, his hand smoothing

After, they lay tangled together, the night sounds drifting through the window — crickets, the faint rustle of the trees, the distant hush of the waterfall. His hand smoothed over her back, his mouth pressed to her temple. She rested against him, her breath evening out, her fingers curled lightly at his chest.

He felt it then — how easily he had fallen back into the shape of her world, how natural it felt to be here again, in her home, in her bed, as if no time had passed at all.

And he knew, in that quiet dawn-bound moment, that he wouldn’t — couldn’t — walk away this time.

The first light of dawn slipped through the curtain, casting the room in a pale gold glow. The night’s hush was breaking—the low murmur of village life beginning again, the distant clink of milk pails, the soft call of birds waking the world.

He stirred before she did, his eyes opening to the familiar ceiling beams, the flutter of the sheer curtain in the morning breeze. For a moment, he simply breathed, listening to the steady rhythm of her breath where she lay tucked against him. One arm was under her shoulders, the other draped across her back, his hand resting over the curve of her waist as if it had always belonged there.

She shifted slightly, not waking yet, just curling closer, her leg brushing over his. That small, instinctive seeking of his warmth undid him all over again. His thumb traced a slow, absent path along her spine, feeling the softness of her skin, the rise and fall of her breath.

Her room smelled of her—faint sandalwood, the wildflowers in the clay pot by the window, the rain-washed air. He took it in, grounding himself in the simplicity of it. The shawl on the chair, the pile of books by her bed, the brass lamp still faintly warm from the night. Her world. And somehow, again, his.

His body remembered the space: how the floor would creak when he stepped near the window, how the cool air would touch his skin just before sunrise, how she would hum softly in her sleep sometimes, like now.

Carefully, slowly, he eased out from under her just enough to prop himself up on one elbow, watching her face. She was peaceful, her lashes resting on her cheeks, her hair a dark, tangled halo on the pillow. A small frown touched her brow in sleep, as if some part of her still didn’t trust this to be real.

Without thinking, he smoothed it away with his fingertips. She stirred then, eyelids heavy, blinking up at him. For a moment she simply looked, as if seeing him there, in the morning light, was almost too much.

“You’re here,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice low, steady, full of promise.

Her eyes searched his, soft but wary, and she reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with a touch that was both tender and testing. “You remember this place too well,” she whispered.

“It never left me.” He bent, brushing his lips to her brow, letting the gesture say what his words could not.

They lay like that for a while longer, the light growing stronger, the world stirring beyond the walls of her little cottage. And then, with a deep breath, she shifted, untangling herself from him, sitting up, pulling the sheet loosely around her.

“I should make tea,” she said, as if naming something ordinary might steady the trembling inside her.

He smiled, that small, warm smile she remembered, the one that always felt like a private secret. “Let me.”

She looked at him, surprised. “You remember where everything is?”

He was already pulling on his shirt, moving through her space with easy familiarity, barefoot on the cool floor. “I remember,” he said simply.

She watched him as he moved about the small kitchen corner—finding the kettle, the clay mugs, the tin where she kept the tea leaves. And for a moment, it felt so natural, so right, it scared her.

When he brought her the tea, he handed it to her as if he’d never stopped doing it. She took it, their fingers brushing, and held his gaze over the rim of the cup.

And in that quiet, fragile dawn, they both knew: this was no longer about the past. It was about what they would choose, now, with the morning light washing over them and the world waiting outside.

They undressed each other not with haste, but with reverence.

And when they came together, it was quiet, restrained — but deep with longing, slow and tender, the kind of joining where every breath, every movement, spoke of all that had been lost and now found again. There was no need for words. Only the rhythm of two souls finding their way back.