First Date-iversary

The place had died on them. Doors locked, lights dead, years of soaked-in memories now stacked behind plywood and rust. Their steps are dead weight on the sidewalk until she grabs his collar with a hungry little smile and drags him home. They drag out that scratched dining table and set two plates down by candlelight. The food gets pushed around more than eaten. Something about the dark, the hush, the sharp memory pushes heat straight to their skin. He pulls her body against him when the last crumb's gone and sways with her right there on the hard floor. Music hums from his phone. They dance slow, hip-to-hip, breathing into each other’s necks. Her dress rides up under his palms. She’s already wet; he can feel the shift of silk between her legs. The candle goes out on the table and the darkness seals around them. Clothes fall quick. Bare skin slaps warm wood as she bends over the edge of the table, ass up. He spreads her, pushes in hard, groaning like the room belongs to just them. Their pace starts rough and desperate, slick sounds wet and fast, then eases into long, grinding strokes that make her clutch the tablecloth and beg with every movement. No lights, no interruptions. Just two hungry bodies chasing the echo of their first night until every breath turns ragged and trembling and they finish tangled and panting in the same damn room that still smells like wax and sex.