The Gravity of a Velvet Touch

In the silent vacuum of my apartment, I exist as a satellite orbiting personal solitude. The city below is a nebula of neon gas and electric dust, but here, time stretches thin like pulled silk.
I drift through the velvet shadows, skin humming with the residual static of an exhausted day. Then comes his presence—not a physical collision, but a shift in atmospheric pressure. He enters my orbit without making a sound, bringing with him the scent of rain-drenched asphalt and warm cedarwood.
He places a hand upon my shoulder, and suddenly, I am no longer suspended in zero-gravity anxiety. His touch is an anchor; it pulls me down into the terra firma of his affection. My breath hitches—a tiny meteor shower within my chest—as he leans close enough to share warmth that feels like starlight captured in glass.
We do not speak; words are too heavy for this delicate vacuum. Instead, we let our pulses synchronize against the backdrop of a shimmering city night. In his arms, I am no longer drifting through the void. I have found my center of mass, healing from the cosmic chill with every pulse of shared heat.

Editor: Zero-G Voyager