In a quiet apartment, the soft glow of a nightlight casts gentle shadows across the room. A young woman, her breath coming in short, panting gasps, lies on a futon, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and pleasure. Her voice, a mix of laughter and relief, echoes through the stillness. She had been waiting for this moment, and now, as she lies back, her body relaxed, she lets out a soft sigh.
A man in a wheelchair sits beside her, his expression one of quiet satisfaction. He watches her with a gentle smile, the warmth of the evening settling between them. The air is thick with the lingering scent of their shared intimacy, and for a moment, there is only the soft sound of their breathing, the faint rustle of fabric, and the quiet hum of contentment.
The man leans in slightly, his voice a soft whisper as he speaks to her, his tone filled with affection. He calls her "onee-san," a term of endearment that carries the weight of familiarity and respect. She responds with a tired laugh, her voice barely above a whisper, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of their connection.
As the night deepens, the two of them drift into a peaceful stillness, their bond unspoken yet deeply felt. The room is quiet once more, save for the soft sound of her voice as she murmurs, "おやすみなさい," a gentle farewell that lingers in the air like a promise of more to come.
