Waking to Salt and Your Name

The sun is doing that thing again—pouring itself over the deck like spilled cream, and I can't quite tell if I'm awake or still dreaming in his arms. My head is thick with last night's wine and his voice saying *stay*, and the whole world feels blurred at the edges, soft as a held breath.
I press my back against the railing and let the salt wind tug at my hair. The city that used to live in my chest—the deadlines, the texts I never answered, the loneliness wearing a tailored suit—feels like someone else's story now. Here, on this white hull cutting through blue, time moves slow enough to forgive me.
He's down below making coffee, I think. Or maybe he isn't. It doesn't matter anymore. What matters is the warmth of his palm still ghosting over my hip, the way my shirt is tied just so at the waist because last night it was too hot and we stopped caring about anything else.
I close my eyes and let the morning soak into me like a bath I didn't know I needed. Healing, it turns out, doesn't roar. It hums. It tastes like salt and coffee and the quiet decision to finally be soft.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn