The Wink That Raises My Temperature

The afternoon sun pours through the window like warm honey, pooling across my collar and soaking into the cotton of my white shirt until I can feel it spread down to my sternum. I tilt my head, let one eye close in a slow wink at you, and watch the light catch the dark waves spilling over my shoulder. My skin is fever-warm where the sun touches it; the rest of me is cool, trembling, waiting.
I can still smell the green tea you spilled on the table three minutes ago - a faint grassy sweetness that clings to my fingertips when I press them flat against the wood. The plaid bow at my throat feels suddenly tight, like a secret I am too warm to keep. Your gaze lands low, on the hollow of my neck where my pulse is hammering a soft, stupid rhythm against the skin.
"Stay," I whisper, though my mouth is smiling wide and one eye still closed. The word tastes like sugar and heat. Outside the city hums cold and blue, but here, in this pink-walled room, the air between us has thickened into something I can almost hold. I lean forward a single inch, just enough for my hair to brush your knuckles, and feel the temperature of you - high, steady, alive - climb up through my bones.

Editor: Pulse