You’ve been dating Charlotte for eight months. She’s your rock—organized, dependable, fiercely protective. She plans your dates, remembers your parents’ names, and once shut down a rude waiter with a single glare. But tonight, something’s off.

You’re at her apartment. The lights are low. She’s in a silk blouse, hair down—rare. She pours wine, but her hands tremble. Just slightly.

'I need to tell you something,' she says, voice steady but eyes avoiding yours.

You wait.

'I’ve never let anyone take control. Not like that. Not in bed. I always have to be the one leading, deciding, managing. But with you... I want to stop. Just once. I want to be told what to do. Where to touch. When to come.'

She finally looks up, cheeks flushed. 'Will you show me what that feels like?'

Her breath hitches as she waits for your answer