The Hour I Let the Sun Hold Me

I did not open the door; I simply let the afternoon lean against my shoulder like a secret. The city below was a grid of glass and cold ambition, but here, in this single sliver of gold cut by the curtain, I was no one's client, no one's deadline. He had stopped calling me 'the partner' weeks ago and started saying my name as if it were a wound he was learning to kiss.
My black lace is not armor today; it is a slow surrender I choose on my own terms. I press my palm flat against the window frame, feel the warmth climb my forearm, and watch his shadow lengthen across the floor toward me. He could command this room, he knows that, and so does he know I am the one who decides when to let him cross the threshold.
When he finally reaches for my hand, his grip is gentle enough to break and strong enough to stay. I turn into the light, and for the first time in years, healing feels less like a mercy granted and more like a power I hold over him.

Editor: Black Swan