Care Package

Siri Dahl sits back on the couch as Lumi Ray hands her another neatly wrapped box. Recovery has felt like a slow drag, but Lumi makes the house smell like fresh flowers and something sweeter. They tear through the ribbon together. Lumi’s voice drops low when she asks how the stitches feel now. Siri laughs, says the scars are clean. The only ache left is the one nobody can talk about at the hospital desk. “No cock, no toys, no fingers inside for seven more days,” she shrugs. Her mouth pulls tight. One-night strangers would need an entire speech, and even the good ones never listen right. She’s ready to accept another stretch of empty nights until Lumi’s smile curves—quiet, knowing. Lumi slides closer. Her palm rests on Siri’s thigh, warm, waiting. Siri feels her pulse trip, then lets it happen. Clothes come off piece by piece. Skin meets skin in careful rhythm, hips rocking, pressure building and fading and building again. Every pause Lumi holds the edge a little longer. Siri laughs once, breath breaking, then moans into the next slow grind. Their bodies slide together with wet, velvet heat until the last tremor runs through her and leaves her loose-limbed on the cushions. Lumi stays draped over her, both of them breathing the same humid air. The rest of the day can wait.