Saltwater Kisses and White Linen Dreams

I’ve spent three years in a city that tastes like cold coffee and deadlines, wearing suits that felt more like armor than clothes. But today, I am just skin and sunlight.
He told me to come here—to this precise stretch of sand where the ocean forgets how to be angry. He didn't say why; he only sent an invitation written in ink that smelled faintly of bergamot and old books.
I stand here now, my white dress catching a breeze that feels like a secret whispered against my collarbone. My toes are sinking into warm gold grains, and for the first time in forever, I’ve forgotten what day of the week it is. Is it Tuesday? Or perhaps an eternal Sunday?
When he finally appears from behind the dunes, his eyes aren't looking at me—they are drinking me in. He doesn't speak; instead, he steps close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his linen shirt, a silent invitation that makes my heart do a clumsy little dance.
I press my hands against my chest as if trying to hold all this sudden lightness inside before it floats away into the blue horizon. He leans in, and just as I think he’ll kiss me, he whispers: 'You look like you've finally come home.'
My city life is still there—the emails, the traffic, the lonely dinners at 9 PM—but right now, they are all drowned out by the rhythm of the tide. He takes my hand and pulls me toward the water; I go willingly, letting him lead me into a world where time has no teeth.

Editor: Cat-like Muse