Just finished taking a shower, still dripping water from her hair, she leaned against the kitchen counter drinking ice water. When I walked over, she didn’t turn around, just moved the cup aside a little.

That movement was very gentle, but I understood.
I stood behind her, resting my hand on her waist, feeling her skin still moist from her recent shower through her bathrobe. She didn’t dodge, instead leaned back slightly, shifting her weight onto me.
At times like this, whoever speaks first loses.
She turned her head to look at me, water droplets still on her lips. “Your hair’s water droplets got on my shoulder,” she said. Her voice was soft, like she was talking about something insignificant.
I didn’t wipe it, lowered my head to kiss the water droplet. She slightly tilted her neck back, letting out a faint sigh, as if she had finally been waiting for something.
Later, she leaned on my chest and suddenly laughed. I asked her what she was laughing at, and she said, “Guess what I was thinking about when I was drinking ice water just now.”
I asked what she was thinking.
She said, “Thinking about when you would come over.”
I held her tighter, didn’t say anything more. Some things, once said, lose their meaning.