The Weight of Silk & Steam

The plush of the robe feels like a second skin, warming me from the lingering chill of the shower.
His scent – sandalwood and something uniquely *him* - clings to the fabric, a phantom touch that sends shivers dancing across my bare arms. I hadn't realized how cold I was before, or how deeply his absence could seep into my bones.
My fingers trace the soft terrycloth at my waist, remembering the feel of his hands there, tying the belt just so. A flush rises on my skin, mirroring the heat that still lingers between my thighs. Shame is a distant echo here; only a slow, aching need remains.
He said he needed space. That he wasn’t ready for… this. But then he left his shirt behind, carelessly tossed over the chair, smelling of him and I wanted to call him back, tell him that it was okay if all he could offer was a shared silence filled with the weight of unspoken desires.
I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. It's a foolish hope, this clinging to remnants. Yet, in the quiet intimacy of his scent, the ghost of his touch, I allow myself to believe that maybe – just maybe – space isn’t always about distance.

Editor: Pulse