The Weight of Silk and Skin

The city exhales a humid breath against my skin, clinging like his hand did earlier. I trace the lingering warmth on my wrist where he touched me, a phantom pressure that ignites a slow burn.
Rain slicked the window of the taxi as we pulled up to my building – a silver sheen mirroring the tremor in my hands. He hadn’t said goodbye, just leaned closer, his scent - sandalwood and something uniquely *him* - filling every inch of space I allowed. A silent invitation to unravel the careful composure I wear like armor.
Now, standing in the cool marble of the lobby, the chill does little to settle the flush that creeps down my neck. My fingers curl into a fist, remembering the rough texture of his jacket beneath my fingertips. It’s foolish, this ache for a touch barely given. Dangerous, too. But some fires are worth letting burn.
I lift my head, the memory of his gaze – heavy and possessive – mirroring in the polished brass of the elevator doors. The air is thick with anticipation, an unspoken promise hanging between us. A single drop of water traces a path down my back, echoing the heat he’s awakened within me.

Editor: Pulse