The Weight of Silk

The silk feels cool against my skin, a deliberate contrast to the heat rising within. He said he liked this outfit – or rather, the way it made me look at him. A dangerous game, acknowledging such things.
I've built walls of power suits and icy composure, each brick mortared with ambition. They’re effective, these walls… until a certain gaze pierces through them, leaving nothing but exposed nerves and a disconcerting awareness of my own pulse.
Tonight isn’t about dismantling those fortifications. It's about acknowledging the soft underbelly that exists beneath, the part of me that craves something other than control. A temporary truce with vulnerability, perhaps. That’s what I tell myself, at least.
But his text… ‘Thinking of you.’ Just four words, yet they feel like a crack in my carefully constructed facade. And honestly? The thought of letting it all crumble isn't as terrifying as it should be.

Editor: Stiletto Diary