Where the Shadow Touches My Knee

I crouch on the warm concrete, the tree's shadow pooling across my legs like a slow, liquid thought. The city hums three blocks away, indifferent; here only the dappled light moves, breathing against my skin. My hands rest on my knees, fingers long and cool, as if I am holding stillness in place.
He does not rush me. That is the part I did not expect. After months of glass walls and cold coffee, he simply stands a few paces back and lets the afternoon warm us both without asking for anything. I feel the heat seep into the hollows of my ribs, a thaw so quiet it almost sounds like forgiveness.
When I finally look up, his gaze is steady but never hungry. I tilt my chin, let the black silk catch the sun, and understand that desire need not shout to be felt. It can sit in silence, ice melting at the edge of a warm room, and still change everything.

Editor: Cold Brew